X 


LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 


LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE 
THE  SAME 


B, 
W.  B.  MAXWELL 

Author  of 

THE  DEVIL'S  GARDEN,  THE  RAGGED  MESSENGER 
THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP.  Etc. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1919 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  Americc 


PRESS  or 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOK  MANUFACTURERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  GERMAN  IN  THE  VILLAGE      .......  1 

RATHER  LATE .     .     .  30 

CHRISTMAS  Is  CHRISTMAS  .     .    ...    «    .     .     .  '  59 

THE  STRAIN  OF  IT    >     ........  94 

THE  CHATEAU    .     .    >     .-,    .,    «    .     .     .     .  119 

THE  WOMAN'S  PORTION     w    M    .-.    .,    .     .     .  146 

A  WIDOW  .....(«    w    M    r*    .     .     .  169 

THE  SHORT  CUT       .     .     .     ,     .    ^    .    ,..    .  194-' 

WHAT  EDIE  EEGRETTED  ...»     .     .     .     .  215 

THE  WRONG  DIRECTION       .     *    .     .     .    w     .  232 

THE  CHANGING  POINT  OP  VHW    .,    ....  259 

JOAN  OP  ABO      ...    .    ,.,    .    f.    m    .....  281 


458574 


LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 


Life  Can  Never  Be  the  Same 

A  GERMAN  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

THE  people  of  Sainte  Chose  were  very  proud 
— taking  pride  in  their  country  because  it 
was  France,  pride  in  themselves  because  they 
were  French,  pride  in  their  village  because  it  was 
solid,  well-built,  pleasant  of  aspect,  as  French 
things  ought  to  be;  and  also  because  no  German 
had  ever  set  foot  in  it.  Not  one  throughout  the 
war.  This  bad  been  a  rare  piece  of  good  fortune ; 
for  the  invaders  went  far  beyond  Sainte  Chose 
in  1914.  Their  Uhlans  had  poured  through  the 
villages  to  right  and  left,  and  on  the  returning 
flood  had,  alas,  carried  with  them  many  prisoners 
and  captives.  "But  so  it  has  happened.  Not  a 
single  German  has  entered  our  village.  Monsieur 
can  ask  the  mayor  or  the  cure.  They  will  tell 
monsieur  the  same  thing." 

Since  1915,  when  the  line  settled  down  three 
miles  to  the  east  of  it,  Sainte  Chose  had  been 
occupied  by  British  troops.  It  held  an  infantry 
battalion  comfortably;  every  six  or  eight  days 
the  battalion  in  possession  inarched  put  to  re- 

1 


2  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

•:VJ 

lieve  the  battalion  holding  the  line,  and  that  bat- 
talion marched  in;  and  so  on,  battalion  after 
battalion,  till,  in  course  of  time,  with  changing  di- 
visions, half  the  British  Army  seemed  to  have 
been  here.  There  was  nothing  concerning  the 
component  parts  of  a  battalion  that  the  villagers 
did  not  know  by  now;  they  could  have  put  an  in- 
coming battalion  to  bed  in  the  dark,  without 
the  assistance  of  billeting  officers. 

"Battalion  headquarters  is  here,  at  Emile 
Veuillot's — that  is  me,  my  Lieutenant.  Your 
colonel's  mess  is  opposite — at  Monsieur  Achille 
Nodier's.  You  will  be  well  there.  It  is  the  best 
house.  Your  quartermaster's  stores?  Go  for- 
ward. You  are  at  Madame  Binet's.  Your  trans- 
port will  enter  the  fields  behind  the  school.  Stop 
not  those  wagons.  Let  them  go  forward  down  the 
hill  to  the  first  corner.  Hold,  my  Captain,  one 
platoon  this  way,  into  the  barn.  One  platoon  to 
the  right,  for  the  lofts  above  the  stable.  Yes, 
you  will  find  a  ladder.  I  have  placed  it  there 
with  my  own  hands — "  and  so  on. 

Summer  and  winter  the  village  street  was  alive 
with  British  soldiers  in  khaki,  horses  and  mules 
going  to  and  returning  from  water,  laden  wagons 
passing,  companies  falling  in  for  parade,  sentries 
on  guard,  with  military  police  at  each  end  of  it 


A   GERMAN    IN   THE   VILLAGE  3 

to  keep  order,  regulate  traffic,  and  look  at  peo- 
ple's passes.  It  was  a  friendly  invasion,  of 
course,  but  the  village  seemed  almost  lost  in  the 
complete  Britishness  of  it.  English  was  the  offi- 
cial language.  Englishmen  gave  you  permission 
to  go  to  the  nearest  town;  these  foreigners  told 
you  when  to  put  out  your  lights  of  an  evening, 
when  to  open  and  shut  your  estaminet,  when  to 
keep  away  from  the  windmill  on  the  hill;  and 
they  saw  that  you  did  it  all.  It  was  for  your 
own  good,  of  course,  and  you  smiled  and  showed 
that  you  understood  and  did  not  resent  the  in- 
terference. 

"Ah!  What  is  that?  Shells  bursting  ne^r 
the  windmill.  Is  it  a  bombardment,  my  Com- 
mandant? Do  you  wish  us  to  descend  into  the 
cellars?" 

"Oh,  no,  that's  nothing.  Only  keep  away  from 
the  hill  until  our  artillery  has  made  the  silly 
fools  leave  off  shooting." 

In  their  own  houses  the  inhabitants  were 
pushed  into  corners  to  make  room  for  the  amiable 
invaders;  naturally  it  had  to  be  done,  and  they 
were  handsomely  paid  for  the  accommodation 
they  provided.  But  beneath  it  all,  the  wonderful, 
quiet,  industrious  French  life  went  on  unchanged. 
They  were  French;  no  swamping  by  foreigners, 


4  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

even  friendly  ones,  would  ever  change  them.  Old 
men,  women,  lads,  girls  and  children,  all  of  them 
that  the  war  had  left  at  home,  continued  their 
patient  labors;  nourishing  the  glorious  French 
soil ;  tilling  it,  sowing  it,  making  it  yield  its  har- 
vest, keeping  it  rich  and  prolific  for  happier 
Frenchmen,  as  yet  unborn.  Though  the  zone  be- 
longed to  the  British  Army,  they  continued  to 
govern  themselves  in  their  own  way;  they  had 
their  old  rules  and  regulations,  and  enforced  them 
in  the  midst  of  the  new  military  arrangements; 
the  garde  champetre  took  round  notices  and 
manifestos;  French  gendarmes  came  in  and  out, 
attending  to  local  matters;  and  the  mayor,  the 
schoolmaster,  the  cure,  the  doctor  from  a  neigh- 
boring village,  and  other  notables,  used  to  meet 
and  have  parish  or  district  councils,  or  whatever 
they  were. 

One  saw  them  of  an  evening  some  times  in  the 
kitchen  at  Monsieur  Achille  Nodier's  farm-house, 
assembled  either  for  business  or  friendly  debate, 
sitting  round  a  table,  talking  in  a  low  voice,  so 
as  not  to  disturb  the  English  officers  in  the  mess- 
room  close  by. 

They  all  got  up  when  one  of  the  officers  came 
to  the  kitchen  door  and  disturbed  them  by  ask- 


A   GERMAN    IN   THE    VILLAGE  5 

ing  in  his  villainous  French  for  the  loan  of  some- 
thing. 

"Very  willingly,  my  Lieutenant*  If  there  is 
such  a  thing  in  the  house,  it  is  at  your  service. 
My  wife  shall  search  for  it  at  once.  Jeanne!" 

And  the  English  officer  would  of  course  apolo- 
gize for  inconveniencing  them,  beg  them  to  sit 
down,  and  try  to  obliterate  himself. 

"No,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Monsieur  Nodier.  "You 
do  not  derange  us.  It  is  a  pleasure." 

They  were  all  so  courteous,  these  old  fellows, 
so  kind,  so  dignified;  with  the  perfect  manners 
that  came  to  them  as  a  birthright  because  they 
were  French. 

"How  much  longer,  Monsieur,"  said  the  cure, 
politely  making  conversation,  "is  this  terrible  war 
to  last?" 

"Oh,  it'll  be  over  by  next  Christmas,  we  all 
hope." 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  the  mayor  jovially. 

"But  you  don't  want  it  to  be  over  until  they 
are  thoroughly  beaten?" 

"No,  no,  no.  A  thousand  times  no,"  said  old 
Nodier,  in  his  deep,  strong  voice,  at  full  tone 
now,  and  with  his  eyes  flashing.  "They  must 
be  crushed,  for  the  safety  of  France." 


6  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"For  the  safety  of  the  whole  world,"  said  the 
mayor. 

"Peace  through  victory,"  said  the  cure.  "That 
is  the  peace  we  desire." 

"Where  they  have  trod  they  must  be  driven 
back — to  the  last  German — and  the  countries  set 
free  again,"  said  Monsieur  Nodier;  and  he 
shrugged  his  huge  shoulders.  "Let  it  take  twenty 
years,  but  let  it  be  done.  We  have  lost  so  much 
already,  to  lose  a  little  more  will  not  count.  Other- 
wise, it  would  be  too  stupid." 

Then  old  Madame  Nodier  came  bustling  back 
with  the  coffee  pot,  toast-rack,  or  whatever  it 
was;  the  English  officer  bowed  his  thanks  and 
withdrew;  and  their  quiet  low-voiced  confabula- 
tions went  on  again. 

"Give  us  peace,  but  give  us  victory  first."  That 
in  effect  was  what  all  these  villagers  said,  bearing 
the  almost  intolerable  burden  of  the  war  with 
such  fortitude  and  dignity;  and  they  all  shrugged 
their  shoulders  as  they  spoke  of  it.  So  many  had 
lost  those  they  loved,  so  many  had  lost  almost  all 
that  makes  life  worth  living,  they  had  suffered 
so  greatly.  But  their  country  must  be  saved, 
whatever  happened  to  them.  And  the  very  soul 
of  France  seemed  to  shine  from  their  faces  as 


A  GERMAN   IN  THE   VILLAGE  7 

they  said  it.  "Too  stupid  to  stop  now,  before  the 
end  is  reached." 

You  could  not  live  with  them  without  respect- 
ing them ;  you  could  not  know  them  well  without 
loving  them. 

But  they  were  not  easy  to  know  well;  they 
were  difficult  to  understand  really.  Perhaps 
a  Frenchman  can  never  really  be  understood  ex- 
cept by  another  Frenchman.  Their  pride  showed 
in  a  certain  reticence,  or  perhaps  it  was  only 
their  natural  good  breeding  which  made  them 
treat  the  English  always  as  guests;  they  would 
talk  freely  of  themselves  if  you  proved  yourself 
to  be  sympathetic  and  could  persuade  them  that 
they  were  not  thus  boring  you ;  but  they  rarely  if 
ever  told  you  about  their  most  intimate  private 
affairs,  as  the  peasants  and  farmers  of  other 
countries  always  do. 

The  Nodiers  and  their  house  were  typical  of 
the  rest  of  the  village.  Nodier  and  his  wife  had 
pushed  themselves  out  of  the  parlors  and  dining- 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  made  the  kitchen 
their  living-room;  they  had  given  up  the  whole 
of  the  first  floor  to  their  guests,  and  with  their 
two  servants,  they  slept  in  the  attics  of  the  second 
floor  under  the  roof.  A  paper  on  the  staircase 
door  that  led  to  this  upper  floor  gently  announced 


8  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

that  a  small  portion  of  the  house  was  reserved 
for  the  family;  and  the  announcement  was  scru- 
pulously honored,  even  by  the  officers'  servants 
and  orderlies,  who  were  always  hunting  for  su- 
perior sleeping  quarters.  There  were  officers' 
chargers  in  the  stables  side  by  side  with  the  farm 
horses ;  officers'  servants  hung  tunics  and  breeches 
to  dry  on  the  cumbrous  farm  wagons;  officers' 
grooms  sat  upon  the  pavement  outside  the  kitchen 
windows  polishing  stirrup  irons  or  whitening 
head  ropes;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  all  Monsieur 
Nodier  went  about  his  work  unconcerned,  har- 
nessed his  team,  went  forth  to  his  fields,  came 
back  again,  summer  and  winter  doing  prodigies 
of  labor  with  no  one  except  a  lame,  smock-f  rocked 
old  man  to  assist  him. 

He  was  big,  robust,  valiant,  as  strong  as  a 
giant  in  spite  of  his  sixty-five  years ;  and  although 
he  talked  so  quietly  indoors,  you  could  hear  his 
voice  a  mile  away  across  the  open  fields,  as  he 
shouted  encouragement  to  his  horses  in  the  heavy 
plow.  He  seemed  to  be  as  gentle  as  he  was 
strong,  never  goading  his  horses  or  rating  the 
farm-hand;  and  it  was  really  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  him  in  the  orchard  on  a  warm  September 
afternoon,  with  a  little  deputation  of  neighbors' 
children,  who  had  come  to  ask  for  apples. 


A   GERMAN    IN   THE   VILLAGE  9 

"Here,  you  small  birds.  Fly  away  with  these;" 
and  he  filled  their  aprons  with  the  ripe  fruit. 
"Go  now  to  madame,  and  see  if  by  chance  she 
has  a  brioche.  Would  you  like  a  brioche?'9 

"Oh,  yes,  Monsieur,"  piped  the  small  birds  in 
chorus. 

And  he  picked  up  the  youngest  child,  almost 
a  baby,  and  carried  it  on  his  shoulder;  through 
the  archway,  across  the  yard,  to  the  kitchen. 

"Jeanne !  Of  your  charity,  spare  a  cake  or  two 
for  this  angel  and  her  companions." 

Madame  Nodier,  as  well  as  himself,  adored 
children ;  and  readily  enough  they  would  tell  you 
about  their  own  two — Achille,  the  elder  boy,  who 
was  fighting  for  France,  and  Leon,  the  younger 
boy,  who  had  already  died  for  France. 

Achille  was  in  the  artillery,  now  down  in 
Champagne,  and  Madame  Nodier  showed  his 
photograph — a  splendid  young  fellow  with 
brushed-up  mustache,  straight  nose,  thick  eye- 
brows, and  bold  kind  eyes. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  good  boy,"  said  his  father,  cour- 
teously accepting  any  compliment  that  one  offered. 

"He  is  but  twenty-seven,"  said  Madame  Nodier. 
"As  happens  often  with  us  who  are  thrifty  and 
think  always  of  the  future,  my  husband  and  I 
married  late  in  life.  It  is  a  comfortable  property 


10  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

that  we  shall  leave  to  Achille — if  he  survives. 
It  is  considerable,  now  that  his  brother's  share 
will  be  his  also.  But  in  any  event  he  would  have 
had  this  farm,  as  the  elder.  He  had  chosen  his 
wife,  my  Lieutenant,  and  they  would  have  been 
happy  here — and  my  husband  and  I,  we  should 
have  been  happy  in  watching  their  happiness." 

"And  so  you  all  will  be,  Madame,  just  as  happy 
&s  you  expected.  The  war  will  soon  finish." 

"Alas,"  said  Madame  Nodier,  with  a  doleful 
sigh.  And  old  Nodier  gave  her  a  friendly  pat  on 
the  shoulder,  and  she  went  on  with  her  work. 
She  said  no  more.  She  was  as  old  as  her  hus- 
band, but  not  a  touch  of  gray  showed  in  her  black 
hair;  she  was  quick  of  movement,  alert,  vigor- 
ous as  a  girl,  and  she  looked  very  grand  in  her 
black  dress  when  she  went  to  Mass  on  Sunday 
mornings.  Throughout  the  week,  and  except 
when  in  church,  on  Sundays  too,  she  worked  un- 
ceasingly. She  had  a  smile  always  ready  for 
the  officers,  and  a  kind  word  for  the  men.  It  was 
rare  that  she  sighed,  and  never  without  reason. 

If  one  had  asked  her,  and  made  her  believe 
that  one  was  really  and  truly  interested,  she  would 
have  told  one  why  she  sighed  now. 

The  girl  that  their  beloved  son  was  going  to 
marry,  had  been  taken  captive  by  the  enemy  in 


A   GERMAN    IN   THE   VILLAGE  11 

1914,  and  since  then  her  relations  had  never  re- 
ceived a  word  to  tell  them  if  she  was  alive  or 
dead.  Which  should  they  hope  for?  Perhaps 
it  was  better  to  think  that  she  had  been  killed. 
"Those  others,  they  are  very  cruel;  yet  if  she 
were  alive,  surely  they  must  have  allowed  her 
to  write  one  letter  to  us  in  all  this  time." 

She  was  a  cousin,  Yvonne  Nodier  of  the  Nodiers 
of  Telvillers,  the  village  two  miles  away  on  the 
right.  These  Nodiers  of  Telvillers  had  not  been 
so  well-to-do,  not  so  highly  considered  as  the 
Nodiers  of  Sainte  Chose.  No  matter.  Yvonne 
was  a  nice,  modest,  self-respecting  girl;  well- 
favored,  too,  and  accomplished.  Her  prosperous 
uncle  and  aunt  had  accepted  her  with  open  arms 
as  a  suitable  bride  for  their  boy.  Her  old  grand- 
father would  be  able  to  leave  her  something — a 
well-filled  stocking,  if  not  land — enough.  Money 
is  not  everything.  When  one  has  already  suffi- 
cient, one  should  not  be  grasping. 

At  the  outbreak  of  hostilities,  Mademoiselle 
Yvonne  set  herself  to  do  nursing  in  an  amateur 
way.  Beds  for  the  wounded  had  been  prepared 
at  the  mairie  at  Telvillers,  and  she  and  others  of 
the  village  made  themselves  busy.  The  Germans 
came  flooding  forward,  frightening  people  to 
death  but  doing  little  harm.  Then,  on  the  return- 


12  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

ing  flood,  when  they  were  being  pushed  back,  they 
came  through  Telvillers  again;  and  they  took 
Yvonne  and  many  other  people  "for  hostages," 
as  they  called  it.  Now  the  old  grandfather  was 
dead,  of  a  broken  heart,  it  was  said;  his  stocking 
and  its  contents  had  vanished ;  the  house  had  been 
destroyed  by  a  stray  shell ;  other  members  of  the 
family  had  been  killed  fighting;  still  others  had 
migrated.  The  cruel  war  had  utterly  wiped  out 
the  Nodiers  of  Telvillers.  Not  a  Nodier  remained 
there  to  sigh  over  the  fate  of  their  poor  Yvonne. 

Suddenly,  in  the  spring  of  1917,  the  battle 
front  began  to  roll  away  from  the  village  of 
Sainte  Chose.  The  enemy  was  giving  ground, 
retreating  to  the  famous  Hindenburg  Line,  hotly 
pursued  as  he  went.  Soon  he  was  ten  or  a  dozen 
miles  off.  The  villagers  could  plant  vegetables  on 
the  hill  now,  and  sow  spinach  round  the  windmill, 
without  fear  of  being  picked  off  by  a  shell-burst. 
Otherwise  things  were  just  the  same.  They  still 
had  a  battalion  billeted  on  them,  the  only  differ- 
ence being  that  the  battalion  belonged  to  a  division 
in  support,  instead  of  to  a  division  in  the  line. 

"This  way,  my  Colonel,"  said  Monsieur  Nodier, 
as  usual,  welcoming  his  guests.  "Here  is  your 


A    GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  13 

mess-room.  Your  bedroom  is  on  the  first  floor. 
You  will  be  well  here;"  and,  courteous  as  ever, 
he  would  pay  a  compliment  about  the  appearance 
of  the  troops  as  they  marched  in.  "Your  battalion 
made  a  good  impression  on  all  the  village,  my 
Colonel;  and  I  can  tell  you,  we  are  judges  by  now 
— we  have  seen  so  many." 

It  was  about  this  same  time,  the  time  of  the 
retreat,  that  a  wonderful  piece  of  news  was 
brought  from  Telvillers. 

Yvonne  Nodier  had  returned. 

She  was  there,  at  the  house  of  Madame  Dur- 
andy.  She  had  arrived  last  night,  exhausted, 
almost  in  rags,  and  had  searched  in  vain  for  the 
house  of  her  grandfather.  Naturally  all  thought 
at  first  that  she  must  have  escaped  from  one  of 
the  villages  just  surrendered  by  the  Germans  in 
the  retreat.  But  this  was  not  so.  Her  story  was 
far  more  remarkable.  She  came  from  Toulon; 
she  had  been  safe  in  France  for  a  long  time,  per- 
haps two  years  or  more. 

"You  will  hear  it  from  her  own  lips,"  said  the 
farmer-friend  who  had  brought  the  news,  as  he 
grasped  old  Nodier's  hand  and  shook  it  vigor- 
ously. "When  you  have  heard  her  tale,  you  will 
take  her  to  your  heart.  No  one  could  blame  her 


14  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

nor  think  the  worse  of  her  for  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

Monsieur  Nodier  harnessed  his  old  white  mare 
in  the  charrette,  and  he  and  madame  drove  across 
to  Telvillers  to  see  her  who  had  been  lost  and  was 
found. 

She  was  properly  dressed  now,  in  borrowed 
garments,  but  tearful  and  shaky ;  and  she  shrank 
from  her  relatives  when  they  came  into  Madame 
Durandy's  parlor. 

"Tell  them  all,  Yvonne,"  said  good  Madame 
Durandy.  "Neither  they  nor  any  one  else  can 
blame  thee;"  and  she  left  them  alone. 

Then  Yvonne  told  her  marvelous  tale.  To  be- 
gin with,  she  set  their  minds  at  rest.  She  had 
not  been  badly  treated  by  the  Germans.  No,  she 
had  nothing  to  complain  of  on  that  score.  She 
had  been  sent  at  once  far  into  Belgium,  and  given 
work  to  do  at  a  town  close  to  a  large  prisoners' 
camp.  There  she  soon  came  to  know  a  French 
officer,  and  she  helped  him  to  escape.  They  got 
away  together,  and  after  terrible  adventures — 
she  shivered  as  she  said  this — they  reached  France 
and  safety.  In  France  she  remained  with  the 
companion  of  her  dreadful  journey — first  in 
Paris,  where  he  was  ill ;  then  at  Toulon,  when  he 
had  returned  to  duty  with  the  army;  then  at 


A   GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  15 

Dijon,  when  he  joined  a  regiment  at  the  front. 
A  month  ago  he  was  killed ;  and  she,  having  spent 
the  money  he  left  with  her,  having  sold  her  small 
possessions,  being  sick  and  unable  to  work,  found 
her  way  back  to  Telvillers. 

"He  did  not  offer  to  marry  you  ?"  asked  Madame 
Nodier. 

"It  was  spoken  of,  but  we  were  not  married/' 

"What  was  his  name?" 

"The  Lieutenant  Henri  Faguet,  of  the  In- 
fantry." 

"And  he  is  the  dead  father  of  your  unborn 
child?" 

"Yes,  my  aunt." 

"But  why  did  not  you  write  to  us?" 

"I  was  ashamed;"  and  Yvonne  dropped  her 
eyes. 

They  asked  her  no  further  questions  then. 
Each  in  turn  embraced  her,  and  five  minutes 
afterward  they  had  her  safe  in  the  charrette, 
and  were  driving  her  home  to  Sainte  Chose. 

"This  is  your  home  now,  my  child,"  said  old 
Nodier,  as  he  helped  her  out  of  the  cart. 

After  that  one  saw  her  sitting  in  the  kitchen 
when  one  went  to  borrow  knives  and  forks — 
a  pale  young  woman,  dressed  in  black,  who  had 
not  been  there  when  one  borrowed  the  egg-cups. 


16  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

And  if  one  looked  at  her,  Nodier  introduced  one  in 
a  dignified  formal  style.  "Let  me  present  you 
to  my  niece,  Mademoiselle  Yvonne  Nodier,  who 
has  come  to  live  with  us."  He  said  no  more,  not 
telling  this  intimate  family  story  to  his  guests. 
If  one  had  known,  one  might  have  been  touched 
by  the  old  fellow's  tender  and  chivalrous  manner 
toward  the  girl.  Even  not  knowing  it,  one  felt 
that  they  made  a  pretty  sight  as  they  walked  arm 
in  arm  through  the  orchard  sometimes  on  spring 
evenings.  He  addressed  her  as  his  daughter  until 
Madame  Nodier  stopped  him.  She  herself  was 
as  kind  as  the  kindest  mother  could  be;  but  she 
had  told  Yvonne  at  once,  with  perfect  candor  and 
straightforwardness,  that  their  son  could  not 
now  marry  her.  There  could  be  no  thought  of 
that,  ever.  He  must  have  an  untouched  maiden 
for  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his  children. 

"No  one  blames  thee,  but  that  is  understood, 
is  it  not?" 

"Oh,  yes,  my  aunt."  The  girl  did  not  murmur 
against  this  verdict.  "When  comes  Achille  on 
leave  next?" 

"Not  for  two  months." 

"I  will  go  away  when  he  comes.  I  do  not  want 
to  meet  him." 


A   GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  17 

"Yes,  that  may  be  better.  It  will  arrange  it- 
self easily." 

No  one  blamed  her.  Far  from  being  thought 
badly  of  by  the  village,  she  was  made  a  heroine. 
Her  escape,  the  romantic  wanderings  with  the 
French  officer  now  dead,  the  fact  that  she  would 
soon  be  a  mother — all  these  things  appealed  to 
their  hearts.  They  came  to  see  her  at  the  farm, 
bringing  small  gifts  to  show  their  unabated  Re- 
gard and  esteem;  and,  greedy  for  details  of  her 
experiences,  they  would  have  pestered  her  with 
questions  if  they  had  not  seen  that  it  was  pain- 
ful to  her  to  answer  them.  Then  immediately 
they  desisted,  and  instead  of  asking  questions, 
told  her  news  of  the  village  to  cheer  her. 

"She  has  passed  through  much,"  said  a  neigh- 
bor's wife  sympathetically.  "She  wants  to  for- 
get." 

"Yes,"  said  Yvonne.     "I  want  to  forget  it  all." 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Nodier,  with  a  swift  un- 
noticed glance  at  the  girl.  "She  wants  to  forget." 

Old  Nodier  had  asked  her  if  she  learned  to 
speak  any  German  during  her  brief  captivity, 
and  she  said,  no,  scarcely  a  word. 

"All  the  better,"  said  Nodier.  "It  is  that  much 
less  to  forget." 


18  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"You  did  not  learn  even  a  few  sentences?" 
asked  Madame  Nodier. 

"I  was  not  there  long  enough.  And,  my  aunt, 
I  did  not  wish  to  learn.  I  pray  I  may  never  hear 
a  word  of  their  language  again;"  and  Yvonne's 
pale  face  lit  up,  and  her  dull  eyes  flashed  for  a 
moment  with  the  same  fire  that  always  showed 
in  her  uncle's  eyes  when  he  spoke  of  the  hated 
enemy. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  spirit,"  he  said  loudly;  and 
he  gave  her  a  pat  on  the  shoulder.  "Put  down 
your  sewing  now,  and  come  with  me  for  a  turn 
among  the  apple  trees.  Have  no  fear  of  the  Eng- 
lish soldiers — they  are  respectful  good  boys." 

"I  follow  you,  my  uncle;"  and  Yvonne  folded 
the  work  that  her  aunt  had  given  her — the  little 
garments  that  would  be  wanted  soon. 

"One  moment,  my  niece,"  said  Madame  Nodier. 
"I  speak  to  thee  once  again  of  coming  to  Mass 
with  me  on  Sunday.  It  is  proper — or  shall  I 
say  rather? — I  would  like  to  have  thee  there  by 
my  side  for  all  to  see.  Will  you  not  go  to  con- 
fession to-morrow?  The  cure  awaits  thee.  He 
will  be  kind  and  gentle." 

Yvonne  sat  down  again  and  began  to  cry. 

"I  have  no  strength.  I  have  no  heart.  I  am 
ashamed.  Let  me  wait  till  my  baby  is  born.  Then 
1 jrill  make  my  peace  with  the  Church." 


A    GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  19 

"Are  you  coming?"  called  Nodier  from  the 
courtyard. 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Madame  Nodier.  "We  will 
wait  till  then.  Now  go  to  your  uncle." 

And  she  stood  at  the  kitchen  window  and 
watched  the  girl  crossing  the  yard.  Her  strong 
eyebrows  were  puckered  by  thought;  her  face 
became  very  somber  as  she  stood  there  by  the  win- 
dow thinking. 

It  was  at  night,  on  the  second  floor,  in  that 
small  part  of  the  house  that  the  family  had  re- 
served for  themselves;  and,  as  had  happened 
once  or  twice  already,  Madame  Nodier  came  soft- 
ly into  Yvonne's  room  and  watched  the  girl  while 
she  slept. 

The  candle  was  placed  where  its  light  would 
not  disturb  the  sleeper.  Except  for  the  fact 
that  the  room  was  overcrowded  with  furniture, 
brought  up  here  to  give  more  space  for  the  offi- 
cers, it  was  all  very  nice  and  comfortable ;  sweet 
and  clean ;  tidy  and  homelike — a  room  that  from 
its  aspect  and  atmosphere  might  have  been  hun- 
dreds of  miles  away  from  the  war  and  the  hor- 
rors of  war.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  house 
or  the  village.  The  night  was  quiet  and  peace- 
ful. Yet  to  watch  Yvonne  as  she  stirred  in  her 
sleep,  to  hear  her  rapid  mutterings,  little  cries, 


20  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME) 

and  sudden  sharp,  articulated  sentences,  made 
one's  blood  turn  cold. 

When  she  talked  in  her  sleep  like  this,  Yvonne 
spoke  German. 

"Nehmen  Sie  die  Hand  von  miener*  Brust  weg 
.  IcH  gehore  den  Offizieren,  Ihre  Dime 
bin  ich  nicht.  .  .  .  . " 

Madame  Nodier  did  not  understand  a  word  of 
it;  but  the  sound  of  the  cursed  language,  here 
in  the  silence  of  the  night,  froze  her  blood. 

"Um  Gotteswillen,  lassen  Sie  mich  los." 

And  the  girl  gave  another  little  cry. 

"Yvonne!  Wake,"  said  Madame  Nodier,  with 
her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"My  God,  what  is  it  now?" 

"It  is  I.    Have  no  fear." 

Yvonne  had  sprung  up  in  the  bed,  stretching 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  ward  off  danger,  staring 
with  panic-stricken  eyes. 

"Drink  some  of  this  milk ;"  and  Madame  Nodier 
fetched  a  glass  from  tho  side-table. 

"Thank  you,  my  aunt." 

"Now  lie  down.  And  I  will  sit  by  you,  like 
this — with  my  arm  round  you,  to  give  you  cour- 
age ....  Now  we  can  talk  tranquilly 
.  Now  you  shall  tell  me  the  truth — all 
of  it.  It  is  proper  that  I  should  know.  That 


A  GERMAN  IN  THE  VILLAGE  21 

wonderful  adventure,  with  the  Lieutenant  Faguet 
and  the  life  as  his  dear  friend,  was  not  true," 

"No." 

"Tell  me  how  things  passed." 

And  Yvonne  told  her.  It  was  a  horrible  tale, 
this,  the  true  one. 

She  had  escaped  from  captivity  only  the  other 
day;  when  the  Germans  fell  back,  abandoning  the 
villages  that  they  had  occupied  so  long.  She  had 
been  at  the  village  of  Martincourt  all  the  time, 
just  twenty  miles  from  here  as  the  crow  flies — 
close  by,  as  one  might  say;  seeing  every  day  the 
road  that  led  toward  home,  the  road  along  which 
she  and  the  others  had  come  when  they  were 
driven  like  cattle  by  the  mounted  men.  On  her 
legs  there  were  still  scars  made  by  lance  prods, 
as  the  men  goaded  them  to  move  faster.  Madame 
Palissy  fell  on  the  road  and  was  stabbed  to  death. 
Andre  Giraud  and  Jules  Fillon  were  shot.  They 
were  allowed  to  drink  at  the  ditches  by  the  road- 
side, but  they  were  given  no  food  for  two  days 
and  one  night.  Except  in  this  way  the  women 
were  not  maltreated.  She  believed  that  an  order 
had  been  given  by  an  officer  at  the  beginning  of 
the  march. 

"Yes,"  said  Madame  Nodier,  "go  on." 

Then  the  first  evening  at  Martincourt,  Yvonne 


22  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

had  been  told  to  wash  and  tidy  herself,  to  act  as 
servant;  and  she  was  set  to  wait  at  table  at  an 
officers'  mess — "like  the  one  in  this  house,  my 
aunt;  seven  officers — but  German,  not  English." 
And  after  dinner  they  played  cards  for  her, 
making  her  understand  that  the  winner  was  to 
win  her  as  his  companion.  But  she  did  not  under- 
stand that  the  companionship  was  only  for  one 
evening,  and  that  she  would  be  with  the  others 
each  in  turn.  After  a  little  time,  these  troops 
left  and  more  came  in  their  place — "as  they  have 
done  here,  my  aunt;  but  Germans,  not  English;" 
and  she  was  told  that  she  belonged  to  the  officers, 
and  would  not  be*  touched  by  the  men  if  she  be- 
haved herself  properly.  She  would  only  be  given 
to  the  men  as  a  punishment. 

She  owed  gratitude  to  an  old,  gray-haired 
officer,  who  was  town  commandant,  and  remained 
so  all  the  time.  He  protected  her,  saved  her  from 
much;  and  after  a  considerable  period  he  took 
her  altogether,  keeping  her  at  his  own  billet,  and 
not  letting  new  arrivals  know  about  her.  He  was 
over  sixty  years  of  age,  and  seemed  to  grow  fond 
of  her.  At  any  rate,  he  was  unfailingly  kind  to 
her.  He  told  her  it  was  useless  to  try  to  com- 
municate with  her  relatives,  for  no  letter  would 
be  permitted  to  pass.  But  he  allowed  her  to  see 


A   GERMAN    IN   THE    VILLAGE  23 

and  talk  with  the  old  French  priest  of  the  vil- 
lage. The  priest  told  her  it  would  be  wrong  to 
commit  suicide;  she  must  suffer  patiently,  and 
she  need  feel  no  stain  of  sin  in  all  the  shame  that 
had  befallen  her.  And  it  was  the  old  priest  who 
eventually  gave  her  the  chance  to  escape,  hiding 
her  in  a  cellar  when  suddenly  the  place  became  all 
confused  by  the  retreat  going  faster  than  the 
Germans  expected,  and  an  order  coming  for  the 
troops  to  evacuate  without  waiting  to  destroy. 

"But  for  him  I  would  perhaps  have  killed  my- 
self. Others  did."  And  she  said  how  there  was 
a  pond,  and  the  soldiers  were  frequently  drag- 
ging it,  and  always  when  they  dragged  they  drew 
out  a  body.  With  her  own  eyes  she  had  seen  the 
dead  bodies  of  Adele  Delard  and  Clarisse  Beau- 
vais,  two  girls  from  Telvillers.  The  village  was 
a  hell  for  the  unhappy  French.  The  old  men  and 
young  boys — the  original  inhabitants — were 
dreadful  to  see  as  they  went  in  gangs  to  their 
digging;  all  white  and  feeble,  like  ghosts,  mov- 
ing so  slowly;  staggering  under  the  light  weight 
of  a  pick  or  shovel. 

Here,  then,  she  had  continued  to  live,  while 
others  were  dying,  and  the  months,  the  years  had 
passed.  And  then  there  came  a  new  sergeant  or 
orderly  to  her  protector,  the  town  commandant 


24  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

This  man  was  a  brute.  He  made  her  submit  to 
be  his  mistress  too,  threatening  her  with  death 
and  worse  than  death  if  she  complained  to  the 
commandant;  laughing  at  her  when  she  said  she 
belonged  to  the  officers;  beating  her  with  the 
scabbard  of  his  side  arm  when  she  resisted.  And 
this  man  was  the  father  of  her  unborn  child. 

"My  daughter,  why  did  not  you  tell  me  the 
truth  at  once?" 

"I  dared  not,  my  aunt/' 

"Call  me  not  aunt,  Yvonne.  Call  me  mother. 
Say  it  now.  Say  it  always  henceforth." 

"Yes,  my  mother/" 

The  old  woman  was  holding  her  in  her  arms, 
kissing  her,  soothing  her. 

"It  is  how  I  shall  think  of  you  always.  My 
own  daughter.  Now  sleep  and  be  tranquil." 

On  a  night  three  weeks  later,  there  was  move- 
ment in  the  reserved  portion  of  the  house,  doors 
opening  ^and  shutting,  footsteps ;  noises — but  not 
sufficient  to  arouse  or  alarm  English  officers 
sleeping  on  the  floor  below.  For  some  days  a 
wise  old  crone  from  the  bottom  of  the  village  had 
been  in  attendance,  and  even  now,  when  the  time 
had  come,  the  doctor  was  not  summoned  to  as- 
sist her.  She  was  well  skilled,  able  to  administer 


A   GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  25 

morphia,  and  needed  no  help.  Indeed,  since  the 
war  began,  she  had  acted  often  in  sole  charge  of 
cases  more  dangerous  than  this. 

Madame  Nodier  herself  took  the  child  from 
her  hands,  and  laid  it  in  the  arms  of  her  hus- 
band, who  stood  waiting  in  the  corridor  below 
the  sloped  roof. 

And  then  the  wise  old  nurse  had  to  come  back 
into  the  room  and  tell  the  mother  that  it  was  a 
male  child,  born  dead. 

"Let  me  see  him." 

"No,  cherished  one,"  said  Madame  Nodier. 
"He  is  not  pretty  to  see." 

"Oh,  mother,  let  me  see  him." 

"No,  well-beloved." 

"0  Jesus  Christ — in  mercy,  give  me  my  little 
baby;"  and  she  fainted. 

Old  Nodier  had  got  out  into  the  darkness  of 
the  courtyard,  carrying  his  wrapped-up  burden 
in  his  arms.  Soon  he  was  in  the  orchard  with 
a  lantern  and  spade.  And  down  there  by  the 
poplars,  away  from  the  apple  trees,  he  buried 
the  child,  just  as  he  would  have  buried  a  dead 
dog. 

One  evening  two  or  three  days  after  this,  a 
group  of  notables  was  assembled  in  the  Nodiers' 
kitchen.  They  sat  around  the  table  talking  earn- 


26  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

estly  but  very  quickly.  The  mayor,  the  doctor, 
the  schoolmaster,  and  a  man  from  a  little  distance, 
who  seemed  perhaps  of  more  importance  than  the 
others,  sat  with  their  chairs  close  together;  and 
facing  them,  side  by  side,  sat  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Nodier.  The  two  servants  had  gone  to 
bed  after  closing  the  shutters;  some  logs 
smoldered  on  the  hearth ;  and  in  the  candle-light 
the  shining  pots  on  the  dresser,  the  tiled  floor, 
and  the  polished  woodwork  looked  cheerfully 
bright  and  clean.  It  was  all  homelike,  comfort- 
able, intimate. 

,     "The  circumstances  have  made  a  bad  impres- 
sion." 

"That  is  to  be  regretted,  Monsieur,"  said  old 
Nodier. 

Monsieur,  from  a  little  distance,  had  been  say- 
ing that  war  is  no  excuse  for  neglect  of  the  for- 
malities and  the  proprieties.  He  said  that  there 
Was  a  lot  of  talk — talk  which  had  spread  beyond 
the  village — about  recent  events  in  this  house. 
The  birth  of  the  child,  with  only  an  old 
accoucheuse  present,  the  hasty  unwitnessed  funer- 
al, the  absence  of  any  notification  to  anybody — 
these  matters  had  naturally  set  people  talking, 
and  wondering.  Not  a  single  paper  filled  in  and 
deposited.  From  the  point  of  view  of  order,  au- 


A    GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  27 

thority,  long-established  usage,  nothing  could  be 
more  irregular  or  more  regrettable.  "What  say 
you,  Monsieur  the  Doctor?" 

But  just  then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  kitchen 
door,  and  a  young  English  officer  appeared.  In- 
stead of  waiting,  as  usual,  to  borrow  something, 
he  had  brought  something  with  him ;  and,  in  his 
villainous  French,  he  explained  that  the  colonel 
wished  madame  to  accept  these  two  photograph 
frames  as  a  trifling  present. 

"The  colonel  was  at  Doullens  to-day,  and  seeing 
them  there,  he  thought  you  might  like  them  as  a 
souvenir.  The  battalion  will  be  moving  soon." 

They  had  all  risen  from  their  chairs,  and  all 
admired  the  photograph  frames.  Madame  sent 
her  grateful  thanks  to  the  colonel ;  Nodier  offered 
thanks  also  on  behalf  of  his  wife ;  the  mayor  said 
it  was  a  very  charming  idea.  They  were  all 
courteous,  kindly,  smiling. 

"I  hope  that  mademoiselle  is  better,"  said  the 
young  officer. 

"I  thank  you.  She  goes  on  famously.  She  will 
be  down-stairs  again  in  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"We  were  all  of  us  so  sorry  to  hear  she  was 
ill." 

"You  are  always  kind  and  considerate." 

"Good-night." 


28  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"Good-night,  my  Lieutenant." 

Then,  when  the  kitchen  door  had  closed,  they 
all  resumed  their  seats  and  went  on  talking. 

"My  old  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  "blame  at- 
taches to  you." 

"You  have  acted  wrongly  and  foolishly,"  said 
the  more  important  visitor.  "Speak  now.  Con- 
ceal nothing." 

"I  will  give  you  the  truth,"  said  Nodier  quiet- 
ly. "Why  should  I  not?  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
it.  The  tale  of  my  niece  was  a  fable.  She  had 
been  abused  over  there.  Her  child  was  a  child  of 
the  enemy." 

"Ah!    That  is  sad." 

"But,"  said  the  doctor,  "the  infant  itself! 
Without  professional  knowledge,  one  can  be  de- 
ceived about  still-born  children.  The  signs  of 
life  can  be  misjudged." 

"I  did  not  misjudge,"  said  Nodier.  "The  child 
was  alive,  till  I  killed  it." 

"Killed  it?" 

"Yes;"  and  he  hit  the  table  with  his  fist.  "It 
was  a  German.  A  German  in  the  village.  What 
else  should  I  do?" 

"Did  the  mother  consent?" 

"Oh,  no.    A  mother  is  always  a  mother." 


A   GERMAN    IN    THE    VILLAGE  29 

And  Madame  Nodier  added  gravely,  "Nature 
and  God  so  ordain  it." 

"That  is  the  truth,  gentlemen.  All  may  know 
it,  except  her." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  the  same  tone. 
"She  should  never  know — because  what  a  mother 
feels  is  sacred.  She,  too,  is  sacred — because  she 
has  suffered  with  France  and  for  France." 

"And  because  of  what  she  has  suffered,"  said 
Nodier,  "my  son  shall  marry  her,  and  while  we 
live,  we  will  try  to  make  her  forget." 

"You  will  let  your  son  marry  her?" 

"He  would  cease  to  be  our  son,  if  he  did  not 
wish  to  marry  her  when  we  tell  him  all." 


RATHER  LATE 

HERE  are  probably  no  people,  however  dull 
and  illiterate,  who  do  not  feel  the  need  of 
living  up  to  some  ideal,  who  do  not  nourish  com- 
paratively lofty  aspirations,  who  do  not  suffer  in 
a  vague  muddling  way,  because  their  actual  ex- 
istence seems  to  fall  short  of  what  it  might  have 
been,  what  it  ought  to  be. 

Mr.  Ringe,  munitions  worker,  as  he  dressed 
for  breakfast  at  his  house  in  Bethnal  Green,  had 
a  heavy  sense  that  fate  was  thwarting  him  in 
an  inexplicable  but  miserably  complete  style.  Yet 
he  ought  to  have  been  happy  this  morning.  It 
was  his  birthday — age,  forty;  "in  the  prime  of 
me  'ealth,"  as  he  often  boasted ;  with  the  lameness 
in  the  right  leg  that  was  chronic,  but  had  never 
interfered  with  his  work. 

The  lameness  had  prevented  his  going  for  a 
soldier.  He  had  offered  himself,  and  been  re- 
fused— perhaps  a  blessing  in  disguise;  certainly 
a  blessing  without  any  disguise  at  all  for  his  wife 
and  children,  who  had  kept  the  bread-winner  safe 
at  home — so  far.  "Yes,  me  lady — so  far."  He 
thought  of  the  war,  the  glorious  war.  "For  it  is 

30 


RATHER  LATE  31 

glorious,"  he  thought,  "from  the  industrious 
point  of  view.  The  scarcity  of  butcher's  meat, 
I  grant  you,  is  a  denial.  But  'oo  'as  ever  sin  the 
same  wide-spread  prosperity  all  throughout  the 
industrious  world?  The  money — the  good  money 
— that  is  now  made  by  all,  not  o'ny  the  skilled 
mechanic  like  meself,  but  the  tradesman,  the  prer- 
fess'nal  man,  such  as  dentists,  the  unskilled  'and, 
any  hobblede'oy  youth  or  'ussy  of  a  gell,  yes,  and 
kids,  too — the  money  to  be  'ad  for  the  astin'  is 
what  none  'ave  ever  dreamt  of  before  the  war 
began." 

And  he  thought  of  war-workers  no  better  than 
himself  to  begin  with,  and  their  surprising  ac- 
cession to  affluence — men  with  little  shops,  men 
with  a  few  carts  and  horses,  men  who  kept  poul- 
try or  cured  fish.  Nothing  originally,  before  the 
golden  age  of  war  began,  but  now  risen  to  sub- 
stantial fortune.  And  why  had  he  not  so  risen, 
even  a  part  of  the  way?  The  answer  presented 
itself  instantly: 

"Becos  I  'ave  a  millstone  'anging  round  me 
neck." 

He  brushed  his  hair  rather  fiercely,  and  glanced 
out  of  the  window  down  into  the  back  yard.  It 
was  a  splendid  summer  morning,  only  five  o'clock 
by  solar  time,  the  sky  high  and  clear,  the  air  all 


32  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

fresh  and  sparkling.  His  own  back  yard  was 
bare  and  grim  in  the  sunshine — not  so  much  as 
a  row  of  beans  planted  in  it.  The  yard  next 
door  was  a  picture.  You  could  hardly  see  the 
yard  itself  because  of  the  rabbit-hutches;  and, 
already,  there  was  his  neighbor's  wife  in  her 
bonnet  and  alpaca  jacket,  opening  the  little  doors 
of  her  menagerie,  putting  in  cabbage  stalks  and 
waste  potato  rind,  glorying  in  the  number,  size 
and  sprightliness  of  the  rabbits.  That's  a  wife, 
that  is. 

He  went  down-stairs. 

"Breakfast  ready?" 

"Not  quite,"  said  Mrs.  Hinge. 

Not  quite.    No,  that  summed  it  up. 

"Here  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Ringe,  putting  a 
plate  upon  the  table  and  removing  the  metal 
cover.  "Bacan — and  an  egg!  I  wanted  you  t9 
have  a  good  breakfast  this  morning." 

Mr.  Hinge's  face  had  softened  at  sight  of  the 
rasher.  Curiously  enough,  he  had  not  smelt  it; 
so  that  it  came  as  a  complete  surprise.  He  spoke 
to  his  wife  in  a  gentler  tone. 

"Why  this  mornin',  particularly?" 

"It's  your  birthday." 

"Oh!    Thought  you'd  forgot  that." 

"No,  I  hadn't  forgot.    I  don't  forget." 

She  was  a  pale,  rather  slatternly  woman,  and 


BATHER  LATE  33 

yet  one  could  still  see  that  she  must  have  been 
pretty  once;  even  now,  when  she  dressed  herself 
properly,  she  was  quite  decent-looking. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Ringe,  "you're  one  o'  the  sort 
that  can't  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

"It's  easy  for  you  to  say  that  after  what  'ap- 
pened  last  night." 

A  sudden  impulse  moved  Mr.  Ringe,  and  he  got 
up  from  the  table.  He  felt  as  if  a  wave  of  mag- 
nanimous emotion  had  floated  him  away  from 
the  hot  tea  and  bacon. 

"Ally!"  And  he  took  his  wife  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her.  "I'm  sorry.  Now  don't  let's  ever 
'ear  another  word  about  it.  Is  that  a  bargain?" 

"All  right— till  next  time." 

"Now,  now!"  said  Mr.  Ringe  severely.  "No 
going  back  to  it.  I've  said  I  was  sorry,  once  for 
all."  And  he  went  on  with  his  breakfast. 

Mrs.  Ringe  had  begun  to  cry;  but  she  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  even  achieved  a  pallid  smile. 

"Many  happy  returns  of  the  day." 

"Thanks.    Where's  the  children?" 

"Up-stairs." 

"Aren't  they  done  dressing?" 

"Not  quite." 

It  was  pleasant  now  in  the  kitchen,  for  a  few 
minutes.  Mr.  Ringe  finished  his  breakfast,  lit 
Jiis  pipe;  then,  alas,  unpleasantness  began  again. 


34  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"Why  don't  the  kids  come  down?" 

"P'raps  they're  afraid  to." 

"Afraid?    What  of  1" 

"Well,  after  what  happened  last  night." 

"I  won't  stand  it !"  Mr.  Hinge  struck  the  table 
with  his  fist,  and  shouted.  He  was  terribly  angry. 
"If  you  turn  those  kids  against  me,  their  own 
fawther,  I'll  chuck  the  'ole  blasted  thing.  I'm 
pretty  near  fed  up  as  it  is.  But  if  you  come  be- 
tween them  and  me — depriving  me  of  their  nat- 
chral  love  and  affecshun,  then  I've  nothin'  left, 
and  I'll  chuck  it." 

Mrs.  Ringe  defended  herself  under  this  cruel 
accusation,  with  a  pallid,  forlorn  sort  of  vehe- 
mence. She  said  she  wondered  anybody  could 
talk  both  so  silly  and  so  wicked.  She  said  when 
it  came  to  a  respectable  man  threatening  to  chuck 
his  wife  and  family,  only  two  explanations  offered 
themselves.  Either  he  had  gone  out  of  his  senses, 
or  he  was  running  after  another  woman. 

"M e!  Another  woman !"  Mr.  Ringe  almost  ex- 
ploded from  the  stress  of  his  indignation.  He,  the 
patient  bread-winner,  the  model  father,  the  per- 
fect, long-suffering  husband,  to  be  accused  of  run- 
ning after  the  petticoats!  It  was  too  rich — oh, 
much  too  rich !  He  opened  the  kitchen  door,  and 


RATHER  LATE  35 

bellowed :  "Tom,  Alice,  Maud !  You  come  down- 
stairs this  instant !" 

The  children  appeared — a  boy  of  twelve,  two 
girls  of  eight  and  nine ;  and  there  was  no  getting 
away  from  the  fact  that  they  looked  at  their 
father  apprehensively.  He  saw  it  at  once. 

"What!  You  shrinking  away  from  me  like 
that?"  he  asked  severely.  "D'you  think  I'm 
goin'to'ityou?" 

They  did  not  answer. 

"Come  'ere." 

They  stood  in  a  bunch  close  to  their  mother,  by 
the  door,  and  did  not  move. 

Mr.  Hinge  sat  down  again  and  nodded  his  head 
gloomily.  His  anger  had  evaporated  with  extra- 
ordinary swiftness,  and  all  kinds  of  different 
ideas  invaded  his  mind.  They  were  such  unin- 
teresting children,  so  poorly  clothed,  too,  so 
slovenly  of  aspect,  not  even  clean.  There  was 
nothing  about  them  in  which  you  could  really  take 
pride.  They  were  not  so  fond  of  him  as  they 
ought  to  be ;  but  then — and  he  knew  it  now,  what- 
ever he  had  fancied  a  minute  ago — he  was  not 
really  fond  of  them.  He  wished  he  had  gone  to 
his  work,  and  left  them  up-stairs.  But  having 
ordered  the  parade,  he  must  carry  it  through 
somehow. 


36  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Tom,"  he  said,  "I  ast  you  to  answer  me.  When 
did  I  ever  raise  my  'and  against  you?" 

"Whit  Monday,"  said  Tom. 

"Oh!  On  the  Bank  'oliday,  my  boy,  it  is  true 
I  gave  you  a  'idin',  with  your  mother's  full  ap- 
proval, for  going  to  the  cupboard  there  and  getting 
at  its  contents.  But  I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  That 
was  punishment.  What  I  mean  is,  in  an  ordinary 
way  I  never  touch  any  of  you  except  as  a  caress. 
Then  why  should  you  be'ave  as  if  you  were  afraid 
of  me?" 

Tom  looked  at  his  father  in  silence,  as  if  he  had 
been  asked  a  conundrum  and  would  prefer  an 
easier  one. 

"Come  'ere,  all  of  you,  and  kiss  me." 

They  obeyed,  pushed  forward  by  their  mother, 
who  whispered  some  prompting  words, 

"Many  'appy  returns,  father." 

"Many  'appy  returns." 

"  'Appy  returns." 

"Thank  you,  my  dears.  Now  you  can  go  and 
wash  your  faces.  They  do  wash  them,  don't  they, 
Ally?" 

"Of  course." 

The  children  went  into  the  little  scullery  behind 
the  kitchen;  and,  left  alone,  husband  and  wife 
made  it  up  again.  It  was  not  quite  such  a  good 


BATHER  LATE  37 

making-up  as  the  last  one,  and  Mrs.  Ringe  did  not 
stop  crying  so  quickly. 

"We  were  all  going  to  buy  you  presents,"  she 
sobbed.  "The  children  were  full  of  it.  Saved  up 
— their — their  money." 

"I  don't  want  no  presents,"  said  Mr.  Ringe  firm- 
ly. And  he  added  that  all  he  wanted  was  a  happy 
home,  a  tidy,  well-managed  home,  where  love  and 
peace  reigned,  and  a  man  who  was  working  him- 
self to  death  could  see  some  reward  for  his  labors. 

"And  I  was  to  ask  you  a  favor,"  Mrs.  Ringe 
went  on,  sniffing  dolefully. 

"What  was  it?" 

"Sence  it's  your  birthday,  and  you've  the  after- 
noon, to  come  'ome  early  and  give  them  and  me  a 
treat." 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  a  treat?" 

"Well,  to  take  us  out — anywhere.  On  an  omni- 
bus— anything.  All  of  us  together — for  a  treat." 

In  imagination  Mr.  Ringe  saw  himself  trapesing 
the  gay  Saturday  afternoon  streets  with  his  slat- 
ternly lady  and  his  poorly  dressed  children.  The 
mental  picture  did  not  attract  him. 

"I  'ave  to  see  me  cousin  Jack  at  three  P.  M."  He 
had  put  on  his  hat  and  was  going.  "Matter  o' 
business." 

"Come  'ome  after  that.    It'd  be  early  enough." 


38  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Look  'ere.    I'll  come  'ome  as  early  as  I  can." 

"You  will  r 

"Yes,  I  will." 

"May  I  'ave  the  children  dressed  ready  for  it?" 

"Oh !  You'd  smarten  'em  up  a  bit  f  er  it,  would 
you?" 

"I'd  do  my  best.     Can  I  tell  'em  you'll  come?" 

"No,  don't  do  that.  I  don't  want  to  promise 
what  p'raps  after  all  I  couldn't  pe'f orm." 

He  was  going  out  into  the  dingy  hall,  and  she 
followed  him. 

"You  won't  be  late  'ome,  will  you?" 

"No,  no.    Ta-ta." 

"Remember,  it's  the  full  moon.  I'm  that  nerv- 
ous at  night,  alone  with  the  children " 

He  was  gone. 

He  looked  back  and  waved  his  hand  as  he  hur- 
ried away.  He  was  thinking  that  his  was  the 
shabbiest  house  in  the  street,  the  worst  home,  the 
most  incompetent  wife,  the  grubbiest,  stupidest 
children.  There  were  flowers  in  some  of  the 
neighbors'  windows;  new  blinds  and  gaudy  cur- 
tains flaunted  in  others — everywhere  he  saw  the 
warlike  signs  of  prosperity,  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
all  he  felt  balked,  misunderstood,  a  failure.  Why 
were  things  not  better  with  him  ?  Simply  because 
he  had  four  millstones  round  his  neck,  keeping  him 
down. 


RATHER  LATE  39 

The  munitions  works  at  which  he  was  at  pres- 
ent employed  were  outside  London,  in  the  Baling 
district.  Work  for  him  finished  this  Saturday  at 
one  P.  M.;  and  at  about  four  he  was  still  in  the 
Baling  district,  with  Cousin  Jack  and  a  party  of 
friends,  seated  in  the  garden  of  a  cheap  restau- 
rant. Tea  had  been  ordered,  and  they  would  enjoy 
it  here  in  the  open  air. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  Ally  and  the  kids. 
Too  late  for  the  afternoon  treat  now.  Perhaps  he 
would  buy  some  cooked  fish  in  the  Whitechapel 
Road  on  his  way  back  and  give  them  a  birthday 
supper.  Then  he  dismissed  this  thought  and  went 
on  enjoying  the  conversation.  There  were  good 
talkers  in  the  party ;  but  it  was  nice  give  and  take, 
each  one  getting  a  turn. 

"Don't  tell  me  but  what  the  politician — and  I 
don't  care  who  he  is — that's  going  to  speak  of  a 
premature  peace,  well,  he's  going  to  find  out  he's 
made  the  biggest  mistake  of  his  life  in  insulting 
the  intelligence  of  the  country." 

"It'd  be  so  much  treach'ry  to  the  brave  lads  who 
are  gone,"  said  one  of  the  ladies. 

"No,  this  has  got  to  be  fought  to  a  finish.  We've 
all  got  to  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  go  on  doin'  our 
bit — each  in  his  own  way." 

"Otherwise  the  whole  thing  would  begin  over 
again." 


40  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Not  in  our  time,  p'raps." 

"I  ain't  so  sure  o'  that,  either." 

"Look  at  that  boy,"  said  another  lady.  "Lost 
his  arm,  he  has." 

The  garden  was  full  of  people.  There  were  girls 
dressed  as  pretty  as  fairies,  comfortable,  friendly 
groups  of  elders,  nurses  in  uniform,  and  many  sol- 
diers, several  of  them  wearing  the  hospital  blue. 
To  some  of  these  one  of  Mr.  Hinge's  friends  spoke 
jovially. 

"Are  we  down-hearted?" 

"NO!"  said  the  wounded  in  loud  chorus;  and 
they  laughed  good-naturedly. 

Truly  it  was  impossible  to  be  down-hearted.  The 
sun  shone,  delicate  streamers  of  white  cloud  glided 
at  a  fabulous  height  in  the  limpid  sky,  sounds  of 
happy  voices  filled  the  air.  Presently  two  unseen 
musicians  began  to  play  upon  a  mandolin  and  a 
piano.  It  was  all  so  pleasant.  There  was  a  gaiety, 
an  animation,  a  sense  of  holiday  making  that  one 
never  had  on  Saturday  afternoons  before  the  jolly 
old  war  began. 

But  beyond  these  general  feelings  of  satisfac- 
tion and  the  relief  from  morbid  thought,  Mr. 
Ringe  took  a  special  pleasure  in  the  presence  of 
one  member  of  the  company.  This  was  Mrs. 
Yates.  She  was  a  comparatively  new  acquaint- 


RATHER  LATE  41 

ance  of  Jack's  wife,  and  Mr.  Ringe  had  met  her 
several  times  before.  He  had  rather  expected  to 
meet  her  to-day,  rather  hoped  to  do  so,  perhaps — 
for  between  them,  although  nothing  whatever  had 
passed,  there  had  arisen  as  it  seemed  to  him,  a  sub- 
tle and  mysterious  sympathy,  like  that  of  two 
kindred  souls  floating  high  above  the  realms  of 
matter,  touching,  dancing  away  again,  and  then 
reuniting  in  the  ethereal  maze.  Mr.  Ringe,  with 
his  billycock  hat  tilted  forward  over  his  nose  and 
a  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  felt  that  he  and 
Mrs.  Yates  were  doing  all  that  again  now,  as  from 
time  to  time  they  glanced  at  each  other  without 
speaking. 

"Hullo.  Here  we  are.  Tea.  Now,  miss,  ra- 
tions are  rations;  but  if  that's  supposed  to  go 
round  among — oh,  all  right.  More  to  follow !  Bon. 
Tray  bon.  We  leave  ourselves  in  your  fair  'ands, 
young  lady.  You  won't  let  us  starve." 

They  did  not  starve.  They  had  a  hearty  m£al ; 
and  more  and  more  Mr.  Ringe  felt  himself  pene- 
trated, wrapped  round  by  the  varied  charms  of 
Mrs.  Yates.  Outwardly  she  was  a  neat  trim 
woman  of  say  thirty-five,  with  beady  brown  eyes, 
a  high  complexion,  and  a  vigorous,  determined  car- 
riage of  the  head  and  body.  Her  figure  was  beau- 
tiful and  substantial.  Her  costume  was  fine  with- 


42  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

out  being1  excessive,  ladylike  and  yet  not  sloppy. 
Inwardly  she  shone  as  a  gay  choice  spirit;  show- 
ing herself  quick  as  lightning  in  repartee  if 
chaffed,  able  to  hold  her  own  in  serious  debate — 
obviously  a  person  of  superior  education. 

"Look  'ere,"  said  Mr.  Ringe.  "Fair's  fair.  I 
ought  to  have  mentioned,  p'raps,  that  I'm  a  mar- 
ried man." 

"Married,  are  you?"  said  Mrs.  Yates.  "Well, 
so  am  I." 

"Oh!  Thought  you  were  a  widow.  'Usband 
living,  is  he?" 

"I'll  tell  you  about  that  later,"  said  Mrs.  Yates, 
smiling. 

It  was  half  past  six  now,  and  Mr.  Ringe  had  got 
no  nearer  home  than  Hammersmith.  The  party 
breaking  up,  he  and  Mrs.  Yates  had  somehow 
drifted  off  together.  They  had  come  as  far  as 
this  on  a  tram-car,  and  were  now  sauntering  along 
the  crowded  pavements  arm  in  arm.  Not  a  word 
had  been  said  about  their  spending  the  evening 
together. 

"No,  you  don't  surprise  me  by  the  fact  of  being 
a  married  man.  I  guessed  that  first  time  I  saw 
you." 

"How  so?" 


RATHER  LATE  43 

"By  your  face.  Your  countenance  is  the  sort 
that  gets  snapped  up  before  its  owner  reaches  the 
age  of  thirty-two.  You  are  thirty-two,  aren't 
you?" 

"Goon.    I'm  forty!" 

"Never?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  Forty  years  of  age  to-day.  To- 
day's my  birthday." 

"No?"  Mrs.  Yates  gave  his  arm  a  delightful 
little  squeeze  of  impulsive  friendliness.  "A  birth- 
day boy !  Then  I  must  drink  your  health  over  our 
snack." 

"What  say?    Oh!    Just  so." 

He  had  not  thought  of  taking  another  snack  so 
soon,  but  it  seemed  a  good  idea.  There  were 
plenty  of  cheap  restaurants  to  choose  from. 

They  sat  long  at  table,  and  Mrs.  Yates  was  very 
arch  and  fascinating,  drinking  his  health  and  call- 
ing him  a  gay  deceiver.  But  she  could  pass  from 
gay  to  grave  in  a  moment.  She  was  all  womanly 
sympathy  when  he  told  her  that,  far  from  being 
a  gay  deceiver,  he  was  a  very  unhappy  man.  And 
he  took  pity  from  her.  Without  disloyalty  he 
hinted  at  the  darker  side  of  his  domestic  life,  an<J 
she  pitied  him.  Her  pity  was  as  stimulating  as 
her  sprightliness. 

to  blame?"  she  sighed.    "I  can't  seem 


44  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

to  understand  it.  You're  not  a  drinker.  I  saw 
that  at  once  when  you  ordered  the  small  bottle." 

"I  don't  drink,"  said  Mr.  Ringe  earnestly.  "I 
don't  care  for  drink.  I'm  sober  and  honest. 
There's  no  one  'as  done  'is  bit  steadier  than  what 
I  'ave  throughout  this  war." 

"Ah,"  and  she  sighed  again.  "I've  had  to  deal 
with  topers  in  my  time.  That's  what  breaks  up  a 
home.  .  .  .  Mr.  Ringe,  when  married  life 
goes  wrong,  the  blame  is  due  to  one  partner  or  the 
other.  And  I  don't  believe  it's  your  fault." 

They  went  to  a  small  music-hall,  still  in  the 
Hammersmith  district ;  and  as  he  followed  her  up 
the  stone  staircase  to  the  circle,  he  kept  thrusting 
at  her  waist  with  his  fingers. 

"  'Urry  up,  my  dear,  or  all  the  fun  '11  be  over." 

"Let  me  alone,  can't  you  ?  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

At  every  touch  he  could  feel  how  solid  she  was. 
Nothing  slack  or  slommacky  about  Mrs.  Yates — 
all  firm  and  trim  and  decided,  from  the  top  of  her 
hat  to  her  quick-moving  heels. 

It  was  a  poor  show,  but  Mr.  Ringe  enjoyed  him- 
self enormously.  More  and  more  he  surrendered 
to  the  fascination  of  his  charming  companion. 
Whenever  the  music  and  the  singing  permitted, 
he  talked  to  her  about  himself ;  telling  her  every- 
thing now ;  feeling  it  as  an  immense  relief  to  open 


RATHER  LATE  45 

his  heart  thus  to  a  cultivated,  highly-educated 
woman  who  wasn't  born  yesterday;  pouring  into 
her  sympathetic  ear  more  and  more  details  of  his 
wrongs  and  suffering. 

"So  last  night — no  supper,  nothing  ready  for 
me — I  own  I  lost  me  temper." 

"I'm  not  surprised." 

"An'  pushed  her.  'Set  about  it/  I  says,  an' 
give  her  a  push.  Now,  believe  me,  it  was  no  more. 
I  laid  my  'and  on  her  arm  like  this " 

"All  right.     You  needn't  act  it.     I  understand." 

"An'  I  says:  'Set  about  it.  Quick!  See?' 
An'  I  give  her  a  push.  'Oh,'  she  says,  'you  brute, 
to  strike  a  woman,'  and  begins  to  'owl  loud  enough 
to  wake  the  neighbors.  An'  I  'adn't  struck  her. 
See?" 

In  his  often  interrupted  but  unceasing  mono- 
logue he  went  on  to  describe  how  the  noisy  lamen- 
tations of  Mrs.  Ringe  had  scared  the  children,  how 
they  also  began  howling,  and  how  they  and  their 
mother  had  cried  and  fussed  about  it  half  through 
the  night.  He  had  felt  it  as  undermining  the  chil- 
dren's affection  for  him,  and  had  said  so.  Then 
magnanimously  he  had  made  friends  over  it — and 
he  reached  the  climax  of  the  narrative.  He  said 
he  felt  now  that  he  could  not  go  on  with  life  under 
such  conditions;  he  was  fed  up  with  it;  he  had  a 


46  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

jolly  good  mind  to  go  into  the  army  under  another 
name  and  desert  the  wife  and  kids  forever. 

"How  could  you  go  into  the  army?  You  say 
yourself  you're  lame." 

"It  doesn't  interfere  with  me.0 

"But  you  limp  a  bit." 

"Nothing  to  stop  me.  They  ain't  so  particular 
as  they  used  to  be." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  go  and  do  anything  rash." 

"It's  what  I  shall  do,  unless " 

Then  the  orchestra  struck  up  the  tune  of 
The  British  Grenadiers,  and  a  man  dressed  like 
an  officer  and  a  gentleman  stepped  smartly  on  the 
stage.  This  performer  had  a  large  white  cloth 
instead  of  a  painted  scene  behind  him;  he  made 
a  brief  but  stirring  speech  about  the  war;  then 
immediately  the  lights  were  lowered  and  a  cine- 
matographic picture  of  the  king  was  thrown  upon 
the  screen  and  welcomed  with  loud  applause. 

"Who  are  the  leaders  we  can  trust?"  asked 
the  performer ;  and  there  followed  pictures  of  Sir 
Douglas  Haig,  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  and  other  cele- 
brated persons.  Each  was  received  with  loud 
plaudits.  There  were  many  soldiers  in  the 
audience,  and  they  cheered  enthusiastically  when- 
ever the  portrait  of  a  soldier  appeared — not 
always  sure  who  he  was,  not  even  sure  that  it  was 


RATHER  LATE  47 

not  a  poor  portrait  of  their  own  colonel.  But  all 
the  more  reason  to  cheer. 

"What  are  we  fighting  for?" 

The  orchestra  played  Home,  Sweet  Home,  and 
the  picture  on  the  screen  showed  a  sad  and 
anxious-looking  woman  leading  a  child  in  each 
hand  as  she  came  out  of  the  gate  of  a  cottage 
garden.  Yes,  we  were  fighting  for  home,  for  the 
women  and  children  of  England,  just  as  surely  as 
if  we  were  getting  killed  on  Clapham  Common 
instead  of  in  the  Somme  Valley.  The  applause 
was  terrific. 

Mr.  Ringe  could  not  talk  during  this  turn,  but 
the  darkness  allowed  him  to  take  his  companion's 
ungloved  hand  and  fondle  it  respectfully.  She  did 
not  resist  the  caress,  she  even  seemed  to  respond 
in  a  delicate,  refined  way.  And  while  the  soldiers 
shouted  and  the  orchestra  played  the  well-known, 
patriotic  tunes,  he  felt  the  uplift  of  it  all.  Great 
thoughts  seemed  to  be  finding  birth  in  him.  Why 
shouldn't  he  distinguish  himself  as  a  warrior, 
strike  sword-blows  instead  of  making  shell  caps, 
rise  high  in  the  service,  come  home  safe  and  sound 
at  last  as  a  general  ?  It  seemed  to  him  he  could  do 
it — something  grand  and  tremendous — if  only  he 
had  any  one  who,  understanding  his  temperament, 
would  encourage  him  and  egg  him  on. 


48  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"What's  the  time?"  asked  Mrs.  Yates,  when 
the  turn  was  over. 

"Quarter  to  nine." 

"Well,  if  we're  going  to  get  any  refreshments 
we'd  better  slip  out  now,  or  we  shall  be  caught 
napping  by  closing  time." 

"Don't  go  and  act  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Yates. 

They  were  in  a  noisy  crowded  bar,  but  they  had 
secured  two  chairs  and  a  little  table  by  the  wall, 
and  they  sat  almost  nose  to  nose,  as  they  had  their 
drink  and  talked  to  each  other.  The  crowd  did 
not  disturb  them;  Mr.  Hinge  had  a  sensation  of 
being  quite  alone  with  her,  wrapped  round  and 
hidden  from  prying  eyes  by  clouds  of  tobacco 
smoke. 

"London  isn't  the  only  place  in  the  world,"  she 
continued.  "There's  munitions  making  all  over 
England.  You're  worth  your  money  anywhere. 
Well,  then,  if  you  feel  you  can't  stand  it  any  longer 
— if  you're  fully  determined  to  desert  'em,  and 
turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  a  fresh  start,  why 
not  go  up  north,  right  away?  Change  your  name. 
That's  sensible  enough.  Begin  a  new  life.  Make 
a  new  home." 

"It's  what  I'll  do." 

"But  you'd  want  some  one  to  take  care  of  you ;" 


RATHER  LATE  49 

and  her  face  was  close  to  his,  the  small  brown  eyes 
glowing,  the  complexion  all  bright.  "Well,  why 
not  make  me  Mrs.  Hinge — or  whatever  the  new 
name  is  to  be?" 

Mr.  Hinge  looked  into  her  eyes  and  seemed  to 
be  looking  into  an  abyss. 

"D'you  mean  bigamy?"  He  whispered  the 
word  with  a  stammer. 

"Oh,  I'm  like  the  Germans,"  said  Mrs.  Yates. 
"I'm  not  to  be  stopped  for  a  scrap  of  paper — or 
the  want  of  it." 

He  tittered  feebly.  She  made  him  feel  giddy; 
she  was  so  charming,  so  ardent,  and  yet  so  matter- 
of-fact.  She  said  something  very  eloquent  about 
the  war  having  destroyed  all  petty  prejudices,  and 
wedding  bells  and  marriage  lines  not  now  being 
necessary  to  the  union  of  hearts ;  and  then  she  ex- 
plained that  she  had  her  own  reasons  for  wishing 
to  change  her  name  and  leave  London.  Her  hus- 
band— if  he  was  her  husband — and  she  wasn't  too 
sure  about  that — was  due  back  on  his  ship,  and 
she  had  no  intention  of  waiting  to  welcome  him. 
She  had  got  on  all  right  without  him  for  two  years, 
and  she  never  wanted  to  see  him  again. 

"But  he'd  trace  us — I  mean,  wouldn't  he  follow 
you  up?" 

"Not   he.     Besides,   how   could   he?     . 


50  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Well,  what  do  you  say?  I'd  make  you  comfortable. 
I  know  what  men  want.  I've  had  a  lot  to  do  with 
men/' 

"You  'ave?" 

She  took  up  her  glove,  and  gave  him  a  little  flip 
with  it  on  the  face. 

"You're  keepin'  me  waitin'  for  an  answer. 
.  .  .  oh,  lord,  what's  that  ?" 

It  was  the  unmistakable  sound  of  gun-fire. 

"  'N  air  raid !"  said  Mr.  Ringe,  springing  up 
from  the  table.  "Those  cursed  'Uns  'ave  come 
back  again." 

The  barroom  was  emptying  itself  slowly,  and 
he  pushed  his  way  through  the  press,  followed  by 
his  companion. 

"Which  way  you  going?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I'll  go  your  way  a  little  way.  No  such  hurry, 
is  there?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  to  get  'ome — long  journey.  I 
want  to  catch  District  train.  I  promised  not  to 
be  'ome  late." 

Outside  in  the  streets  no  one  was  hurrying. 
People  strolled  along  laughing  and  chatting;  but 
the  great  beams  of  the  search-lights  swept  the  sky, 
whistles  sounded,  and  the  guns  made  a  tremendous 
racket.  At  each  bang  Mr.  Ringe  stepped  out  more 
briskly. 


RATHER  LATE  51 

"When  shall  I  see  you  again?"  panted  Mrs. 
Yates.  "I — I  can  barely  keep  up  with  you." 

"I  dunno — not  for  certain." 

"Stop  a  moment — and  I'll  give  you  my  address, 
where  you  can  write  to  make  an  appointment." 

"No,  keep  moving.    Tell  me  in  the  train." 

There  was  a  crowd  at  the  Broadway  Station, 
and  somewhere  in  the  crowd  he  mislaid  Mrs.  Yates 
and  did  not  find  her  again.  No  matter.  She  was 
a  capable  woman  who  could  find  her  own  way  all 
right.  She  was  not  a  bit  afraid.  Nobody  in  this 
crowded  train  seemed  to  be  afraid,  nobody  in  the 
whole  of  the  West  End  of  London,  perhaps,  was 
afraid — except  himself.  And  he  was  afraid  be- 
cause he  was  in  the  West  End  instead  of  the  East 
End,  where  the  bombs  would  probably  fall  if  any 
bombs  fell.  A  cold  superstitious  fear  had  seized 
upon  him. 

It  passed  off  in  a  minute,  before  the  train  had 
reached  West  Kensington.  Nonsense. 

At  Earl's  Court  everybody  was  told  to  get  out 
of  the  train. 

"When's  the  next  train  for  Whitechapel?"  he 
demanded  excitedly. 

"Ask  the  Germans,"  said  the  official.  "There 
won't  be  a  train  for  Whitechapel  till  the  raid's 


52  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Then  the  fear  returned  to  him.  No  train  ?  No 
'bus?  No  means  of  getting  home?  It  was  one 
thing  to  be  dead  sick  of  them,  to  mean  to  leave 
them  forever;  for  they  would,  normally,  get  on 
very  well  without  him,  better  than  with  him,  per- 
haps. It  was  quite  another  thing  to  think  of  them 
in  momentary  peril,  terrified,  cowering,  and  him- 
self miles  away,  when  he  had  promised  to  be  with 
them  and  had  broken  his  promise.  Outside  EarPs 
Court  Station  he  looked  at  the  sky — tiny  stream- 
ers of  faint  cloud  at  an  immense  height  that  might 
have  been  anything;  bright  moonlight,  so  bright 
that  you  could  not  see  the  stars,  and  could  barely 
see  the  search-lights.  The  anti-aircraft  guns 
whizzing  and  twanging  and  booming.  Must  get 
home.  He  ran. 

The  perspiration  was  pouring  off  him,  and  his 
lame  leg  was  giving  him  intense  pain  when  he 
came  out  into  the  main  road  west  of  Kensington 
High  Street.  There  were  some  military  lorries 
moving  slowly  in  the  right  direction,  and  with  an 
extraordinary  effort  he  scrambled  up  on  the  back 
of  one  of  them.  To  his  disgust  the  lorry  turned 
round  at  Knightsbridge  and  dived  into  the  Bromp- 
ton  Road.  He  jumped  off,  slipped,  fell,  got  up, 
and  ran  again.  Then  by  luck  he  saw  a  chock-full 
belated  omnibus,  and,  jumping  on  that,  went  for- 


RATHER  LATE  53 

ward  in  the  right  direction.  The  conductor  made 
trouble,  stopped  the  'bus,  told  him  to  get  off  the 
platform,  and  with  breathless  excitement  he  stat- 
ed his  necessity. 

"I  'ave  to  get  'ome.  See?"  And  he  appealed 
to  the  whole  'bus-load,  the  whole  universe,  for 
assistance  in  his  extremity.  "Must  get  'ome 
somehow.  My  'ome  is  in  Bethnal  Green,  which 
is  prob'ly  bearing  the  brunt  of  these  in'umin 
fiends." 

"They  haven't  dropped  anything  yet,"  said  a 
man  in  khaki. 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes.  Here,  take  my  place.  .  .  .  Drive 
on,  conductor." 

The  omnibus  went  no  farther  than  Charing 
Cross,  and  beyond  that  omnibus  traffic  seemed  to 
be  suspended  altogether.  In  the  Strand  the  quiet 
aspect  of  things  steadied  his  nerves,  made  him  feel 
that  his  fear  was  ridiculous.  Nevertheless  he 
jogged  along.  Then  at  Wellington  Street  he  saw 
parties  of  refugees,  foreign  Jews,  men  and  women 
with  bundles,  hurrying  for  shelter.  This  un- 
nerved him,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  heard 
what  he  felt  certain  was  the  crash  of  exploding 
bombs.  It  was  unmistakable.  He  had  heard  it 
several  times  before — quite  different  from  the 


54  LIFE   CAN   NEVER  BE   THE   SAME 

sound  of  the  guns.  There  again  it  was,  straight 
ahead  of  him,  in  the  east;  and  once  more  he  ran 
fast. 

He  had  said  that  the  lameness  would  not  inter- 
fere with  him;  and  it  did  not,  but  the  pain  was 
almost  unbearable.  His  ankle  seemed  to  be  on 
fire ;  the  bones  of  his  leg  seemed  to  strike  on  the 
stone  pavement,  and  the  concussion  pierced  his 
thigh  joint  with  red-hot  nails — and  still  he  ran 
on,  faint,  gasping,  despairing.  "Said  I  wouldn't 
be  late  anyhow — an'  she  said  she  was  that  nervous 
if  left  alone." 

The  "All  clear"  signal  had  been  given  long  ago 
when  he  got  to  Bethnal  Green,  and  came  limping 
toward  the  corner  that  led  to  his  street.  Things 
had  been  reassuringly  quiet  and  orderly  in  the 
main  thoroughfare — omnibuses  and  trams  at  work 
again;  only  one  fire-engine  going  westward,  sug- 
gesting that  there  had  been  trouble  or  an  alarm 
of  trouble  somewhere.  The  fear  had  gone;  only 
a  little  anxiety  mingled  with  his  great  fatigue. 
Then,  as  he  turned  the  corner  and  saw  the  end  of 
his  street,  he  nearly  fainted. 

There  was  a  crowd,  a  fire-engine,  hose  pipes, 
policeman,  firemen  in  helmets, 

"Stand  back." 


BATHER  LATE  55 

"Lemme  pass.  I'm  a  tenant.  Me  own  property. 
Wife  and  kids.  Don't  you  try  to  stop  me.  See?" 

He  was  struggling  wildly  in  the  arms  of  two 
plethoric  special  constables,  and  pushing  them 
backward  through  the  crowd  into  the  open  space 
beyond.  A  fireman  lent  a  hand  and  they  over- 
powered him.  Then  it  was  all  like  a  nightmare. 
The  street  had  been  bombed,  many  houses  had 
been  demolished,  perhaps  other  houses  might  fall 
in  at  any  minute.  But  presently,  on  his  promising 
to  go  quietly  and  behave  like  a  sensible  person,  he 
was  taken  down  the  street  to  see  for  himself. 

His  home  had  vanished  utterly.  At  the  end  of 
the  street  there  was  a  yawning  rent  in  the  houses ; 
where  his  home  had  been  there  was  nothing  but 
an  immense  rubbish  heap  of  smoldering  beams 
and  red-hot  bricks,  played  on  by  fountains  of 
water.  His  own  house,  the  houses  of  his  next- 
door  neighbors,  the  yardful  of  rabbit  hutches, 
everything  had  disappeared  in  smoke  and  horror. 
The  street  itself  had  gone,  with  its  pavement  and 
lamp-post.  He  stood  in  the  cruel  moonlight,  on 
the  edge  of  a  bottomless  crater,  raving  and  yelling. 

"Th'  in'abitants.  Th'  inhabitants.  Is  they  all 
done  for?" 

They  made  him  understand  that  everybody  had 
been  warned  to  get  out  and  run  for  the  borough 


56  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

shelter.  Anybody  who  did  not  act  on  the  warning 
was  lying  under  all  that. 

Then  he  was  like  a  madman,  wanting  to  stop 
the  fire-engine  and  dig  among  the  hot  bricks  with 
his  own  hands,  fighting,  yelling.  A  clergyman 
appeared  from  nowhere,  and  led  him  away,  ex- 
hausted. Why  despair?  Why  doubt  Providence? 
Let  us  come  and  hunt  for  your  dear  ones. 

They  were  not  at  the  shelter.  It  had  been 
emptied  and  shut  up.  They  might  be  at  the 
school  in  Raymond  Street,  where  other  refugees 
had  been  sent.  And  they  were  at  the  school. 
Directly  he  entered  the  schoolroom  door  he  saw 
them — his  whole  family,  a  forlorn  little  group 
apart  from  the  others,  hatless,  dirty,  miserable; 
the  wretched  woman  crying;  the  children  cling- 
ing to  her  and  trembling. 

Now  w^ould  have  been  the  time  to  desert  them. 
They  had  not  yet  seen  him.  After  all,  they  were 
alive  and  safe ;  but  homeless,  without  beds,  ward- 
robe, crockery,  cooking  utensils;  everything  gone 
from  them,  everything  to  be  provided  for  them. 
But  he  did  not  want  to  desert  them  now. 

"Ally!    Well,  my  dears!" 

He  was  kissing  his  wife's  wet  face;  he  was 
hugging  his  grubby  children. 

The  clergyman  and  kind  ladies  said  that  they 


RATHER  LATE  57 


would  all  be  given  beds  and  blankets  for  the  night 
at  a  building  in  Church  Place.  This  lady  would 
lead  them  there ;  and  presently  they  were  meekly 
following  the  lady  through  the  now  silent  streets. 

He  squeezed  his  wife's  arm  and  patted  Maudie 
on  her  bare  head  as  they  walked  along.  Each 
of  the  children  clutched  in  its  right  hand  a  small 
object  wrapped  in  paper. 

"What  'ave  they  got  in  their  'ands?"  he  asked. 
"Biscuits?" 

"No,  it's  your  presents  what  they  bought  for 
you.  I  couldn't  get  'em  out  of  the  house  without 
'em.  Maudie  there,  she  left  hers  and  ran  back  for 
it,  making  the  policeman  that  angry." 

Then  Mr.  Ringe  began  to  cry. 

"Ally,"  he  said  tearfully,  "don't  you  fret  about 
all  this.  It's  all  right;"  and  he  blew  his  nose 
resolutely.  As  he  spoke,  he  felt  the  uplift  again ; 
the  war  spirit,  stimulated  by  the  pictures  and 
patriotic  tunes  at  the  music-hall,  stirred  in  him 
again ;  but  it  was  the  real  spirit  now,  not  a  false 
one. 

"Ally,  it's  a  blessing  in  disguise.  London  isn't 
the  on'y  place.  I'm  sick  of  it.  I  ain't  done  well 
'ere.  I  ain't  treated  you  well  'ere.  I'll  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  make  a  fresh  start.  I'm  worth  the 
money  anywhere.  We'll  go  up  north.  We'll  make 


58  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

a  new  'ome,  an'  start  fair  in  it,  with  bygones  as 
bygones.  I'll  do  better,  we'll  be  'appier  in  the 
new  'ome?  See?" 


CHRISTMAS  IS  CHRISTMAS 

IT  was  the  first  Christmas  Day  that  the  Tenth 
Battalion    spent    in    France;    and,    as    they 
thought  at  this  period  of  their  history  that  it  was 
also  the  last  Christmas  Day  they  were  to  spend  in 
France,  they  made  rather  a  fuss  about  it. 

Turn  and  turn  about  with  a  battalion  of  an- 
other brigade,  they  were  holding  a  nice  attrac- 
tive bit  of  the  line  with  a  still  nicer  and  more 
attractive  village  three  miles  behind  it;  one 
battalion  in  the  trenches,  the  other  battalion  in 
the  village  as  support ;  and  for  six  weeks  the  Tenth 
had  been  calculating  how  the  turns  would  come 
about  with  regard  to  Christmas.  According  to 
the  calendar,  if  the  times  for  reliefs  were  not 
altered,  if  no  accidents  occurred,  it  looked  as  if 
the  Tenth  would  be  out  of  the  trenches  and  snug 
in  Sainte  Chose  for  their  Christmas  dinner,  and 
they  so  laid  their  plans ;  but  one  dreaded  accidents 
—this  war  was  so  full  of  them — and  one  had  an 
unworthy  suspicion  that  the  general  officer  com- 
manding the  other  brigade  might  somehow  do  the 
dirty  and  get  his  lot  out  for  the  festival  instead 
of  ourselves. 

59 


6Q  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

However,  it  all  happened  as  the  Tenth  wished. 
The  other  brigadier  attempted  no  wrangling  with 
the  higher  command ;  he  was  a  gentleman,  second 
only  in  gentlemanliness  to  their  own  brigadier; 
and  on  the  twenty-third  of  December  they  came 
down  from  the  line,  plastered  with  mud,  but 
happy  as  birds  at  entering  the  comfortable  nests 
afforded  by  their  beloved  village. 

The  Tenth  had  fallen  in  love  with  it  at  first 
sight  when  they  marched  in  last  September  and 
saw  the  white-walled  mairie  and  schoolhouse,  the 
apple  orchards  with  the  ripe  fruit,  the  estaminets 
with  flowers  in  the  windows,  and  the  friendly 
French  people  at  the  house  doors  with  welcoming 
smiles  on  clean  kind  faces;  and  ever  since  then 
their  affection  for  it  had  been  deepening.  It  really 
was  a  topping  village  for  billets.  The  farm- 
houses and  cottages  were  so  solidly  built,  the  barns 
and  lofts  were  so  commodious,  and  as  yet  it  had 
suffered  so  little  from  shell-fire.  There  were  little 
shops  like  Whiteley's  contracted  into  one  small 
front  parlor;  eggs,  butter,  and  other  delicacies 
were  plentiful;  the  inhabitants  had  now  become 
bosom  friends  of  the  battalion  and  would  do  any- 
thing for  one.  No  wonder  the  Tenth  thought 
themselves  in  clover  there,  and  wrote  home  saying, 
"This  place,  which  I  may  not  mention  its  name, 
is  Al.  There  are  nice  girls  in  it,  but  you  need  no$ 


CHRISTMAS   IS    CHRISTMAS  61 

be  jealous,  Katie,  for  they  all  have  French  sweet- 
hearts in  the  French  Army.  They  can  make 
coffee  a  treat,  and  the  French  beer  is  not  so  bad 
as  I  used  to  think.  Altogether  we  seem  at  home 
here,  and  you  feel  as  if  you  were  hundreds  of 
miles  away  from  the  war." 

Yet  in  fact  one  was  only  three  miles  as  the  crow 
flies  from  the  German  front  trenches,  and  you  had 
not  to  go  far  from  the  crossroads  by  the  mairie 
before  the  war  announced  itself  again  in  its  usual 
ugly  way.  Four  roads  met  at  the  corner  by  the 
mairie;  and  two  of  these  were,  so  to  speak, 
innocent  peaceful  roads  that  took  you  back  to 
other  inhabited  villages,  and  two  were  wicked 
roads  that  led  you  forward  to  desolation  and  the 
cruel  business  of  fighting.  One  of  the  two  bad 
roads  forked  immediately,  thus  making  a  third 
forward  road.  It  was  the  left  fork  that  the 
battalions  used  when  going  to  this  special  place 
of  business.  You  went  up  a  gentle  slope  between 
the  comfortable  farm-houses  and  courtyards  that 
were  B  Company's  main  billet,  battalion  head- 
quarters, the  colonel's  mess,  A  Company's  head- 
quarters; then  you  came  to  some  shattered 
tenantless  cottages ;  you  passed  the  apple  orchards 
and  poplar  trees  that  formed  a  fringe  to  the 
village  and  in  summer  hid  it  completely,  a  crucifix 
still  standing  untouched  on  a  high  bank,  a  clump 


62  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

of  somber  fir  trees ;  and  after  that  you  were  out 
in  the  open  waste,  with  nothing  between  you  and 
the  trenches  except  a  roofless  ruin  that  had  once 
been  the  quadrangle  of  a  large  farm,  a  pile  of 
white  stones  that  was  a  windmill,  and  the  brown 
sea  of  weeds  that  used  to  be  rich  cornfields.  It  was 
a  rapid  and  striking  transition  from  the  normal 
aspect  of  the  village  to  this  wild  heath,  the  belt  of 
devastation  that  stretched  away  on  either  hand 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see.  As  well  as  the  high 
road,  always  empty  of  life  in  daylight,  there  were 
tracks  over  it  used  by  artillery  wagons  and  the 
regimental  limbers;  here  and  there  one  came 
upon  sunken  roads  that  ran  for  a  little  way 
parallel  to  the  line;  and  the  whole  place  was  full 
of  traps  formed  by  weed-covered  shell-holes, 
disused  trenches,  old  gun  pits.  Almost  every  inch 
of  it  had  been  fought  over  in  the  early  days  before 
the  line  settled  down  in  its  present  position. 
Riding  across  it  in  the  day-time,  one  was  often 
startled  by  finding  one's  self  close  to  troops  before 
one  had  guessed  that  there  was  anybody  else 
moving  within  a  mile  of  one.  It  was  so  big, 
so  empty,  so  utterly  forlorn,  so  dead  that  it 
seemed  to  swallow  every  sign  of  life.  The  dull 
brown  tints  of  the  rank  vegetation  absorbed  into 
themselves  the  color  of  khaki  tunics;  the  faint 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  63 

wintry  sunshine  refused  to  flash  on  the  men's 
accouterments ;  and  platoon  after  platoon  could 
go  plodding  along  the  mud  tracks  without  betray- 
ing their  presence,  unless  you  chanced  to  hear  the 
sound  of  a  voice,  or  the  rhythmic  creaking  of 
equipment  that  told  you  men  were  marching  in 
step  somewhere. 

On  the  innocent  roads  that  led  backward  from 
the  village  it  was  quite  a  different  story.  There, 
all  was  animation  and  comfort.  One  passed 
through  endless  wagon  lines  of  artillery  and  army 
service  corps ;  lorries  were  active ;  red-hatted  staff 
officers  in  motor-cars  came  spinning  along,  and 
their  soldier  chauffeurs  hooted  at  huge  farmers' 
carts  blocking  the  way ;  sentries  saluted ;  military 
police  asked  you  where  you  were  going;  the  fields 
were  being  tilled  by  bent  old  peasants ;  boys  and 
girls  were  tending  the  cattle.  The  village  a  mile 
or  so  back  was  divisional  headquarters,  with  a 
chateau  for  the  general  and  a  street  full  of  offices 
for  his  staff.  Two  miles  behind  that  a  bigger 
village  was  army  corps  headquarters,  with  another 
chateau  for  the  general,  three  streets  of  offices, 
squadrons  of  cavalry,  more  military  police,  a 
prisoners  of  war  camp,  all  sorts  of  wonderful 
things.  And  still  farther  back  were  the  railway, 
the  channel  ports,  England.  It  cheered  one  and 


64  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

bucked  one  up  only  to  look  in  that  direction  and 
think  where  one  would  get  to — if  one  went  far 
enough. 

The  Tenth  Battalion  liked  to  do  things  in  style, 
and  they  spared  no  expense  in  making  Christ- 
inas at  Sainte  Chose  a  matter  to  be  remembered. 
They  had  been  further  heartened  and  encouraged 
in  their  efforts  by  confidential  literature  from 
the  higher  command,  which  said  it  was  desired 
that,  as  far  as  possible,  the  day  should  be  enjoyed 
as  a  holiday  by  the  troops  out  of  the  line.  It 
should  not,  of  course,  be  forgotten  that  war  is 
war — but,  within  reasonable  limits,  officers  com- 
manding units  might  remember  that  Christmas 
is  Christmas. 

The  festivities  began  on  Christmas  Eve  with  a 
grand  children's  party  for  the  inhabitants.  At 
three  P.  M.  one  saw  the  guests  arriving  at  the 
schoolhouse  next  to  the  mairie;  mothers,  aunts 
and  grandmothers  issued  from  the  clean  and 
comfortable  billets  leading  little  children  dressed 
like  fairies,  with  shawls  wrapped  round  their 
finery;  groups  of  young  girls  stood  shyly  in  the 
roadway,  not  giggling  and  nudging  one  another  as 
girls  of  other  countries  would  on  such  an  occasion, 
but  looking  desperately  serious,  as  all  French 
people  do  in  moments  of  slight  embarrassment. 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  65 

"This  way.  Come  along/'  said  young  English 
officers,  welcoming  the  guests. 

"I  thank  you,  my  Lieutenant." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle  Louise.  How  smart  you 
look.  What  a  lovely  costume.  And  this  is  your 
little  brother,  Pierre?  Come  along,  Pierre,  and 
I'll  find  you  a  good  seat  near  the  tree." 

When  the  guests  entered  the  big  schoolroom 
they  gave  little  cries  of  admiration  and  delight. 
The  small  scholars  could  scarcely  recognize  it  as 
the  place  of  toil  and  boredom  to  which  they  were 
accustomed.  All  the  candles  had  already  been 
lighted ;  flags  of  the  Allies  were  festooned  across 
the  high  ceiling;  three  immense  tables  were 
spread  out  with  all  the  requisites  for  a  sumptuous 
English  tea ;  and  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  stood 
a  noble  Christmas  tree  profusely  laden  with  toys. 
The  toys  were  so  many  that  a  table  of  them  had 
been  arranged  as  a  tombola  in  charge  of  the 
quartermaster,  while  a  further  overflow  were  to 
be  got  rid  of  by  the  padre  with  a  bran  pie.  But 
tea  first. 

"Give  yourself  the  trouble  to  sit  down,  Madame. 
This  way,  Mademoiselle  Clotilde." 

Soon  then  all  were  seated;  the  matrons  sand- 
wiched in  between  their  shy  little  relatives  or  in 
groups  at  the  heads  of  the  tables ;  the  mayor,  the 


66  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

schoolmaster,  and  other  village  notables  strolling 
about;  the  English  officers  acting  as  waiters, 
carrying  plates  of  cake,  cutting  well-intentioned 
and  totally  incomprehensible  jokes  in  what  they 
believed  to  be  the  French  language,  each  of  them 
of  course  paying  special  attention  to  the  family 
of  his  own  billet.  For  a  few  minutes  it  was 
rather  a  silent  party ;  then  the  shyness  "wore  off, 
the  naturally  glib  tongues  were  unloosed  again. 
Even  before  the  crackers  were  handed  round  the 
noise  had  become  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  hosts 
that  their  party  was  a  success.  The  crackers 
were  something  entirely  new  to  Sainte  Chose,  and 
the  screams  and  laughter  amid  the  sharp 
explosions  proved  how  much  they  were  appreci- 
ated. Young  ladies  of  eighteen  allowed  officers 
to  assist  them  in  putting  on  the  paper  head- 
dresses ;  the  quartermaster  crowned  his  landlady, 
old  Madame  Binet,  with  a  red  cap  of  liberty — it 
was  all  very  jolly  and  homelike.  As  one  looked 
along  the  table,  at  all  the  smiling  faces,  heard  the 
babel  of  happy  voices,  and  saw  the  little  girls  just 
as  prettily  dressed  as  children  at  a  party  in 
Portland  Place  or  South  Kensington,  one  seemed 
to  be  a  thousand  miles  away  from  the  rotten  old 
war.  Truly  it  was  a  pretty  sight. 
After  tea  the  tables  were  moved,  the  children 


CHRISTMAS    IS    CHRISTMAS  67 

i 

filled  the  floor  space,  and  the  distribution  of  toys 
began.  Old  farmers  returning  from  work  came 
to  see  the  fun.  The  doors  were  thronged  with 
elders  going  in  and  out.  The  regimental  medical 
officer  entered  fully  disguised  as  Santa  Glaus  and 
was  scarcely  noticed.  Non-commissioned  officers 
in  appropriate  costume  sang  music-hall  songs  and 
were  not  listened  to.  The  children  were  enjoying 
themselves  now  without  restraint;  the  party  was 
a  terrific  success. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  crowd  and  the  noise  and 
the  gaiety,  one  little  girl  of  ten  gradually  had 
attracted  the  notice  of  everybody  and  became,  as 
it  were,  the  belle  of  the  ball. 

"My  Colonel,  grant  me  this  pleasure ;"  and  she 
asked  the  C.  O.  to  pull  a  cracker. 

"Indeed  I  will;"  and  the  colonel  immediately 
fell  in  love  with  her. 

And  so  it  was  with  everybody  else.  Yet  she 
did  not  push  herself  forward;  she  was  soberly, 
even  shabbily,  dressed  compared  with  the  others ; 
she  was  by  no  means  the  prettiest  child  there. 
She  was  quiet  and  unassuming,  with  an  earnest 
little  face,  a  serious  voice,  and  the  perfect  man- 
ners of  a  grand  lady  of  sixty ;  she  was  irresistible. 
"Yes,  yes,  it  is  Antoinette,"  said  the  French 
people.  They  made  quite  as  much  of  her  as  the 
English  did. 


68  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

She  lived  with  her  Aunt  Rosine  at  the  farm 
occupied  by  the  regimental  transport,  and  men 
of  the  transport  section  knew  her  well.  They 
would  tell  you  how  she  seemed  to  run  the  whole 
farm  for  Rosine,  taking  the  cattle  to  the  fields 
and  bringing  them  back,  making  out  lists  of  things 
to  be  purchased  when  her  aunt  went  to  market 
at  Doullens,  preparing  meals  for  the  children 
while  auntie  was  away;  and  in  leisure  moments 
acting  as  amateur  line  orderly,  telling  the  trans- 
port sergeant  that  two  of  his  heavy  draught 
horses  had  broken  loose  or  the  old  spotty-faced 
mule  had  got  cast  again. 

"Yes,"  said  the  mayor,  speaking  to  the  colonel, 
"that  child  is  a  little  heroine.  She  has  been  in 
the  hands  of  the  Germans,  my  Colonel,  in  the  early 
days,  with  all  her  family.  They  escaped,  I  know 
not  how.  But  the  family  is  no  more — the  father 
killed  in  battle,  the  mother  dead — and  the  aunt 
has  given  her  shelter." 

And  the  schoolmaste:  praised  her  as  highly, 
saying  how  quick  she  was  at  her  book,  and  how 
she  had  been  exempted  from  school  as  indis- 
pensable to  Madame  Rosine. 

"That  child,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "would 
carry  the  whole  village  on  her  shoulders;"  and 
he  reminded  the  mayor  that  it  was  Antoinette 


CHRISTMAS    IS    CHRISTMAS  69 

who  had  given  the  warning  when  Monsieur 
Nodier's  barn  caught  fire.  "She  has  seen  the 
smoke  and  runs  straight  to  the  mairie  with  the 
alarm."  But  for  Antoinette  half  the  village  might 
have  been  burned. 

"It  is  true,  all  that  he  relates,  my  Colonel." 

Because  of  her  popularity  Antoinette  seemed 
in  danger  of  getting  rather  more  than  her  strict 
share  of  the  toys,  but  she  herself  was  careful  to 
prevent  this  happening. 

"I  thank  you,  but  excuse  me,  I  beg,"  she  said, 
with  a  grave  smile.  "Give  that  to  another.  You 
have  overwhelmed  me  already." 

"Watch  her  now,"  said  Madame  Giraud  to  a 
neighbor.  "See,  she  gives  her  doll  to  Hortense, 
because  she  knows  that  Hortense  is  lame  and  sits 
all  day  on  the  hearth." 

"That,"  said  Madame  Veuillot,  "is  what 
Antoinette  does  ever.  She  thinks  only  of  others. 
Yes,  we  are  talking  of  you,  Antoinette.  Come 
and  give  me  a  kiss." 

"Jarvis,"  said  the  colonel,  for  a  moment 
touching  on  business  as  the  transport  officer 
passed  him.  "Jarvis,  you  have  seen  that  thing?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  initialed  it  and  passed  it  on  to  the 
machine-gun  officer,  as  directed." 

"It  affects  you,  of  course." 


70  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  are  your  lot  dining  to-morrow?" 

"At  the  Estaminet  du  Moulin." 

"That's  the  place  at  the  corner,  close  to  your 
lines?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good." 

The  thing  to  which  the  C.  0.  alluded  was  a 
synopsis  of  strictly  confidential  literature  issued 
by  the  higher  command  a  few  hours  ago.  Bri- 
gades and  battalions  were  warned  that  various 
indications  suggested  the  possibility  of  the 
enemy's  attempting  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
surprise  to-morrow.  It  might  be  bombardment, 
gas,  or  direct  assault;  but  the  idea  of  the  higher 
command  was  that  the  enemy  would  somehow  try 
to  take  advantage  of  its  being  Christmas  Day,  and 
officers  commanding  battalions  in  support  should 
therefore  exercise  vigilance  and  be  ready  for 
anything.  Christmas  is  Christmas,  but  war  is 
war. 

Officers,  speaking  of  this  confidential  matter 
while  the  children  drank  their  tea  and  pulled  their 
crackers,  agreed  that  it  was  the  sort  of  dirty  trick 
the  Germans  would  play  if  they  could  play  it. 

Two  young  platoon  commanders  were  speaking 
of  it  now,  as  the  padre  distributed  the  last  of  his 
toys  from  the  bran  pie. 


CHRISTMAS    IS    CHRISTMAS  71 

"It  doesn't  mean  standing  by,  does  it?" 
"Oh,  no,  only  to  be  ready  to  turn  out." 
And  they  went  on  talking.  The  child 

Antoinette  was  close  to  them;  and  at  something 

that  they  said  she  turned  sharply  and  watched 

their  faces  with  large  anxious  eyes. 

"Hallo,     Antoinette!       Do     you     understand 

English?" 

"No,    my    Lieutenant,    but    one    word  —  'the 

Germans.9     You  said  the  word.     What  of  the 

Germans?" 

"We're  only  saying  we're  afraid  they'll  want 

to  interfere  with  our  Christmas  dinner,"  and 

Lieutenant  Thompson  laughed. 

"But  is  that  possible?"    Antoinette  echoed  the 

laugh;  then  she  became  grave  and  asked  some 

solemn  questions.     "They  can  not  come  here,  can 

they?" 

"Not  unless  they  make  a  hole  in  the  line  first." 
"But   they   would   be   stopped   by   the   other 

regiments  ?" 

"Yes,   unless  the   smell  of  our  turkeys  and 

sausages  made  them  very  fierce  indeed.     They 

might  risk  everything  to  get  a  share  in  the  plum 

pudding." 

"But  you  will  guard  against  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  we'll  try  to  guard  against  it." 


72  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Antoinette  spoke  very  gravely.  "You  will  want 
somebody  to  watch  while  you  are  at  dinner." 

"Thompson,  don't  be  an  ass,"  said  the  other 
officer.  "You  are  frightening  her." 

"Not  she.    Are  you  afraid,  Antoinette?" 

"I  am  never  afraid,"  she  said  firmly.  "But 
believe  me,  the  Germans  want  watching  always." 

At  the  end  of  the  party  the  colonel,  who  talked 
all  languages  that  a  soldier  ought  to  know,  made 
a  little  speech  in  perfect  French,  saying  how  great 
had  been  the  pleasure  of  the  Tenth  Battalion  to  see 
their  kind  friends  there  that  afternoon;  and  the 
mayor,  who,  like  all  Frenchmen,  knew  only  one 
language  and  never  wished  to  learn  another, 
responded  with  a  few  happy  phrases  of  acknow- 
ledgment. 

"Not  only,"  said  the  mayor,  "do  we  sleep 
tranquilly  in  our  beds  because  you  form  a  living 
and  unyielding  wall  between  us  and  the  cursed 
enemy,  but  by  your  kindness  and  sympathy  you 
have  bound  us  to  you  as  more  than  allies,  as  true 
friends ;"  and  he  added  that  they  would  have  liked 
to  sing  God  Save  the  King,  had  they  been  able  to 
master  either  the  tune  or  the  words;  but  they 
would  sing  it  silently,  deep  in  all  their  hearts. 

Then  the  colonel  called  for  The  Marseillaise. 
He  told  the  quartermaster  to  sing  it,  and  the 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  73 

quartermaster  said  it  was  more  in  the  padre's  line, 
and  the  padre  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

"Shameful,"  said  the  colonel  indignantly.  "I'll 
sing  it  myself,  if  you  fellows  are  such " 

But  the  cry  arose,  "Antoinette.  Antoinette. 
She  sings  it  ever.  Antoinette !" 

It  was  pretty  to  see  the  child's  shy  expostu- 
lations and  graceful  surrender.  They  put  her  at 
the  top  of  the  room  facing  the  audience,  and  she 
raised  her  little  voice  and  sang.  The  chorus 
nearly  broke  the  schoolhouse  windows ;  every  one 
went  mad  with  enthusiasm.  When  it  was  over 
they  put  Antoinette  on  the  table  where  the  toys 
had  been,  and  made  her  sing  it  again. 

It  was  wonderful  and  touching  to  see  and  to 
hear — the  rather  shabby,  pathetic  little  figure 
perched  high  on  the  table,  the  small  face  flushed 
from  the  effort  of  singing,  the  eyes  bright  and 
large,  the  hand  raised  dramatically;  and  the  thin 
but  sweet  little  voice  piping  out  the  glorious  song 
of  unconquered  and  unconquerable  France.  All 
went  mad  for  the  second  time. 

This  was  the  culmination  of  Antoinette's 
success.  As  one  left  the  party  one  felt  that  it 
would  have  been  nothing  without  her. 

Outside  in  the  village  street  night  had  fallen 
pitchy  black;  all  lights  were  carefully  screened, 


74  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  only  a  gleam  showed  here  and  there  as  a  door 
opened  and  shut  or  somebody  flashed  his  torch 
lamp;  but  well-practised  eyes  soon  grew  accus- 
tomed to  the  darkness.  One  heard  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  and  moving  wheels — and  one  guessed 
at  once  what  this  might  be,  before  the  sentry  at 
the  corner  challenged.  It  was  a  limbered  wagon 
and  the  mess  cart,  both  heavily  loaded  with  the 
Christmas  mail — forty  bags  of  it,  for  the  bat- 
talion. They  turned  in  by  the  archway  to 
Madame  Binet's  courtyard,  the  quartermaster's 
stores ;  and  soon  the  post  corporal  and  his  special 
assistants  were  going  round  the  dark  village  with 
thousands  of  letters  and  cards  from  home. 

"Halt.  .  .  .  Who  goes  there?"  Another 
sentry  challenged.  "Pass,  friend.  All's  well." 

All's  well.  The  spirit  of  Christmas  was  floating 
in  the  night  air.  At  the  snug,  warm,  officers' 
messes  the  talk  was  of  home  and  of  being  there 
this  time  next  year.  Just  before  the  meal  was 
finished  at  headquarters  mess  a  wagon  stopped 
outside  the  windows  and  carol  singers  interrupted 
the  conversation.  They  were  musicians  of  the 
divisional  band  going  round  the  villages  in  a  G.  S. 
wagon,  stopping  at  important  points,  singing  their 
carol,  and  passing  on. 

At  Sainte  Chose  we  flung  open  the  windows  and 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  75 

stood  with  the  night  air  blowing  into  the  room 
while  we  listened. 

"Is  the  band  sergeant  there?  Come  in,  Ser- 
geant, and  have  a  glass  of  port  wine." 

"Thank  you  all  the  same,  sir,  but  we  must  get 
on  to  Telvillers,  to  sing  outside  the  brigade  mess." 

"Then  good  night.  A  happy  Christmas  to 
you  all." 

One  felt  that  if  the  band  sergeant  could  not 
wait  for  a  glass  of  port  he  must  really  be  in  a 
hurry. 

A  few  minutes  before  nine  officers  were  going 
round  billets  to  see  that  all  was  in  order  before 
lights  out.  On  the  gentle  slope  in  the  roadway 
at  the  top  of  the  village  one  could  hear  distant 
rifle  fire,  an  occasional  rattle  of  the  machine  guns, 
or  the  solid  booming  of  artillery ;  stars  rose  in  the 
east,  the  pallid  flares  with  which  the  enemy  would 
light  the  sky  all  through  the  night ;  and  one  knew 
that  over  there,  on  the  far  side  of  the  waste, 
thousands  of  men  were  watching  and  listening  in 
the  darkness ;  that  little  knots  of  men  were  creep- 
ing on  hands  and  knees  through  gaps  in  the  wire ; 
that  men  were  trying  to  blow  one  another  to  pieces 
with  bombs,  to  shoot,  stab,  tear,  to  rend  the  life 
out  of  one  another  somehow  in  the  darkness.  But 
all  that  was  normal,  quite  in  order;  from  the 


76  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

business  point  of  view,  it  was  a  quiet,  peaceful 
night.  One  turned  from  the  roadway,  went  along 
a  muddy  lane,  came  to  a  barn,  and  opened  the  door. 
Twenty,  thirty  or  forty  men  were  lying  wrapped 
in  their  blankets  on  the  floor;  and,  fixed  in 
improvised  tin  sconces,  ends  of  candles  burned 
cheerfully  against  the  brick  walls  above  the  men's 
heads.  By  the  candle-light  they  were  looking  at 
their  Christmas  cards  and  re-reading  their  letters 
from  home. 

"All  present,  sir,"  said  the  non-commissioned 
officer. 

"Are  you  all  right  there  ?"  asked  the  officer. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  men.  "All 
right,  sir." 

"Got  enough  straw?" 

"Plenty,  thank  you,  sir." 

"Then  lights  out." 

Next  moment  all  was  dark  in  the  barn. 

"A  happy  Christmas  to  you." 

"Same  to  you,  sir.     Happy  Christmas." 

Out  of  the  darkness  their  strong,  brave,  friendly 
voices  came  in  a  jolly  chorus;  and  one  went 
squashing  through  the  mud  to  the  roadway, 
thinking  perhaps. 

"Halt!" 

It  was  the  challenge  of  a  sentry  that  one  was 
not  expecting. 


CHRISTMAS    IS    CHRISTMAS  77 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Officer  commanding  number  six  platoon." 

"Advance  and  be  recognized." 

One  went  forward  a  few  paces. 

"Halt!"  And  there  was  a  bayonet  at  one's 
breast. 

"Flash  your  lamp  so's  I  can  see  you." 

One  obeyed,  and  the  bayonet  was  withdrawn. 

"Pass,  friend.     All's  well." 

And  one  went  on,  perhaps  thinking  again. 
"Pass,  friend.  All's  well."  It  was  almost  the 
very  words — a  message  of  peace  and  good-will  to 
all  men.  The  spirit  of  Christmas  was  in  the  air; 
one  could  not  escape  from  it;  one  felt  as  if  the 
village  was  two  thousand  years  away  from  the 
war. 

There  was  a  fog  next  morning,  but  by  midday 
it  had  lifted  and  a  pale  but  friendly  sunlight  fell 
upon  the  white  walls  of  the  mairie  and  the  busy 
little  street.  Church  parade  was  over;  duty  men 
were  cleaning  themselves;  dinners  would  be 
served  at  one  o'clock,  and  half  of  the  kind  inhab- 
itants had  in  one  way  or  another  lent  a  hand  in 
getting  things  ready. 

Truly  the  Tenth  Battalion  had  done  it  in  style, 
each  company  vying  with  another,  and  the  results 


78  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

surpassed  belief.  Unnumbered  turkeys,  obtained 
from  England,  had  been  cooked  at  the  quarter- 
master's stores ;  sausages  also,  together  with  pork 
from  Doullens;  the  whole  regimental  transport 
had  been  employed  to  move  the  beer  from 
railhead ;  the  day's  ration  beef  would  smoke  upon 
the  boards ;  and  there  had  been  a  benevolent  issue 
of  plum  pudding  from  a  great  London  newspaper. 
Beyond  this  solid  fare  there  were  incalculable 
delicacies  purchased  by  officers,  and  the  outlay  on 
decorations  had  been  lavish. 

The  scene  of  yesterday's  juvenile  party  was 
now  D  Company's  banqueting  hall.  Tables  had 
been  laid  out  to  seat  the  whole  company;  they 
creaked  under  the  good  things,  they  glittered  with 
colored  ornaments.  When  one  came  in  at  the 
door  one  had  the  genuine  illusion— the  stage  was 
set  for  a  true  English  Christmas  dinner — one  was 
in  England.  Burly  sergeants  marched  up  and 
down  by  the  tables,  counting  the  places,  surveying 
the  long  perspectives  of  glass,  cutlery  and  piled 
fruit  dishes.  Such  potentates  as  company 
quartermaster  sergeants  stood  proud  and  immov- 
able, giving  directions  to  subordinates  busy  with 
final  touches.  Quick-handed,  neatly-dressed 
French  girls  bustled  in  and  out,  assisting,  exactly 
as  if  they  had  been  the  sisters  and  cousins  of  the 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  79 

battalion;  and  the  non-commissioned  officers 
spoke  to  them  quite  in  this  spirit:  "Here,  my 
lass,  put  those  oranges  down  here.  .  .  .  What 
ye  got  there,  Nellie?  More  nuts?  Very  good. 
Carry  on." 

The  other  companies,  including  headquarters, 
were  as  happily  accommodated.  Between  twelve- 
thirty  and  one  the  colonel  made  a  tour  of  inspec- 
tion with  his  second-in-command.  All  this  sort 
of  unusual  exertion,  coming  under  the  head  of 
what  is  called  domestic  economy,  naturally 
belonged  to  the  second-in-command;  and  the 
major  modestly  explained  it  all  as  they  went  from 
point  to  point.  When  the  men  had  finished  their 
dinner  and  the  wine  had  been  put  on  the  table, 
the  colonel  should  come  round  again,  look  in  at 
each  dinner,  and  say  a  very  few  words.  Then 
after  his  speech  the  men  would  probably  drink 
his  health,  and  quite  possibly  sing  He's  a  Jolly 
Good  Fellow.  Then  after  they  had  smoked  and 
drunk  for  some  time,  they  would  all  go  out,  the 
rooms  would  be  rearranged,  and  they  would  have 
informal  sing-songs,  and  no  doubt  more  speeches 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Everybody  would  get 
his  dinner  comfortably;  by  a  system  of  reliefs 
indispensable  duty  men  would  be  given  their  turn ; 
nothing  had  been  forgotten.  Really  it  was  a 


80'  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

triumph  of  organization.  But  what  about  guards  ? 
Well,  a  special  dinner  for  headquarters  guard 
would  be  served  in  the  main  guard  room.  Other 
guards  would  be  feasted  by  company  arrangement. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  the  colonel  genially, 
"you  are  top-hole  at  this  sort  of  thing.  Does  you 
the  greatest  possible  credit,  my  dear  old  boy." 

At  five  minutes  to  one  the  men  began  to  fill  the 
street  and  all  the  open  space  at  the  cross-roads 
by  the  mairie.  They  looked  splendid,  so  smart  and 
clean;  their  faces  shining  from  extra  soap,  their 
buttons  glittering  like  jewelry,  their  boots  so 
well  blacked  that  they  seemed  to  be  made  of 
patent  leather.  They  stood  about  waiting,  alert, 
soldierlike,  and  very  quiet;  although  there  were 
so  many  of  them  that  their  mingled  voices  made 
a  pleasant  music.  Then,  at  a  word,  they  began 
to  file  off  to  their  respective  rendezvous.  D  Com- 
pany went  up  the  steps  of  the  schoolhouse, 
smartly  saluting  their  colonel  as  they  passed.  In 
three  minutes  they  had  disappeared,  and  the 
street  was  empty.  The  colonel  and  headquarters 
officers  still  stood  in  a  little  group  talking,  and 
except  for  them  there  was  not  an  English  soldier 
in  sight.  For  a  moment,  in  accordance  with  the 
custom  of  the  Tenth,  they  congratulated  ons 
another  on  belonging  to  such  a  battalion. 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  81 

"What  a  battalion  it  is !"  said  the  colonel ;  and 
the  adjutant,  the  intelligence  officer,  the  transport 
officer,  the  medical  officer  heartily  agreed. 

Indeed,  you  could  not  command  such  men 
without  being  proud  of  them  and  loving  them. 
One  could  not  think  of  them  without  tenderness ; 
and  one  felt  this  now,  as  a  tremendous  noise  inside 
the  schoolhouse  told  one  that  D  Company  was 
sitting  down  to  dinner.  Poor  chaps — one  felt 
quite  soft  and  sentimental  as  one  thought  of  their 
having  a  good  square  meal  in  real  comfort,  a  few 
hours'  complete  respite,  a  little  gaiety  to  make 
them  forget  their  ugly  task. 

"What's  that?"  said  the  colonel.     "Listen!" 

In  the  now  silent  street  one  heard  the  light 
patter  of  approaching  footsteps,  and  next  moment 
a  child  came  running  round  the  corner  from  the 
forked  road.  It  was  Antoinette.  She  ran  to  the 
colonel  and  stood  breathless,  panting,  with  a  hand 
pressed  to  her  side. 

"Bless  me,"  said  the  colonel,  smiling,  "you 
seem  in  a  hurry  to-day,  Antoinette." 

"My  Colonel,"  she  gasped.  "The  Germans!  The 
Germans  have  broken  through." 

"What's  that,  Antoinette?" 

"They  are  there,"  and  she  pointed  with  her  little 


82  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

hand  in  the  direction  of  the  line.  "Not  two  kilo- 
meters from  here." 

"But  how  do  you  know  that,  Antoinette?" 

"I  have  seen  them  myself." 

"You  have,  have  you  ?"  The  colonel  was  looking 
down  at  her,  with  a  kindly  but  serious  smile.  The 
others  had  gathered  close  round  her,  and  all 
watched  her.  "How  came  you  up  there,  Antoi- 
nette? Were  you  alone?" 

"Yes.  I  went  there  to  watch  for  the  battalion, 
because  it  is  Christmas  and  you  are  all  at  dinner." 

"How  many  Germans  did  you  see?" 

"Six  or  seven.  I  think  it  was  the  head  of  a 
column.  They  were  in  the  sunk  road,  perhaps 
three  hundred  meters  from  the  crossing  that  leads 
to  La  Sainte  ruins." 

"Did  they  see  you?" 

"No.  As  soon  as  I  had  seen  them  I  ran  to  bring 
you  the  alarm." 

"Thank  you,  Antoinette.  You  are  a  little 
angel." 

These  questions  and  answers  took  less  than  no 
time,  and  while  listening  one  thought.  It  seemed 
incredible,  and  yet  it  must  be  true.  You  could  not 
look  at  the  child's  face  and  doubt  her  sagacity  or 
truthfulness.  Except  that  she  was  out  of  breath, 
she  was  as  calm  and  collected  as  the  colonel  him- 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  83 

self.  Indeed,  from  her  businesslike  manner  she 
might  have  been  another  battalion  commander  or 
a  staff  officer  quietly  imparting  a  necessary  piece 
of  information.  But,  nevertheless,  was  she 
mistaken?  No.  She  had  once  been  in  the  hands 
of  the  Germans.  She  knew  a  German  when  she 
saw  him.  Then  how  could  it  have  happened?  The 
night  and  the  morning  had  been  profoundly  quiet, 
scarcely  any  shooting  at  all,  because  of  the  fog. 
Yes,  the  fog?  One  thought  of  the  small  river  and 
the  ravines  at  the  extreme  left  of  the  divisional 
front,  the  point  of  junction  between  us  and  the 
French  division,  the  point  covered  by  the  guns  of 
both  divisions.  Could  they  have  possibly  filtered 
through  there  in  the  fog?  One  thought  very 
rapidly.  But  the  colonel  thought  more  rapidly 
than  the  others  because  he  thought  so  method- 
ically. 

"Thank  you,  Antoinette."  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  the  brisk  concise  orders  began  to 
rattle  out  of  him. 

"Yes,  sir  ...  Yes,  sir  ...  Yes,  sir  ... 
Yes,  sir." 

One  after  another  his  officers  had  gone. 
Immediately  after  the  first  officer  vanished  there 
came  a  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  schoolroom.  D 
Company  was  in  the  street,  going  to  its  billets. 


84  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

The  other  companies  were  out;  the  whole  village 
was  full  of  hurrying  soldiers.  To  the  villagers 
these  three  or  four  minutes  were  like  a  fantastic 
dream.  Clotilde,  bringing  the  last  plate  of 
walnuts  and  meaning  to  hand  it  to  a  non-commis- 
sioned officer,  found  the  crowded  room  empty. 
Louise,  coming  with  another  knife  and  fork,  met 
a  surging  mob  that  said,  "Excuse  me,  miss,"  and 
slipped  past  her.  Madame  Binet,  with  other  good 
souls,  pulling  turkeys  out  of  the  ovens  and  looking 
round  for  help,  saw  the  quartermaster's  staff 
packing  up  the  butchers'  tools,  carrying  heavy 
boxes  and  dumping  them  in  the  archway.  She 
went  to  the  front  door  and  looked  down  the  road 
at  Rosine's  farm.  Officers'  horses,  fully  capari- 
soned, were  coming  out  of  the  gate.  The  transport 
men  were  running  about  like  ants;  ammunition 
boxes  were  being  handed  out  of  a  loft  door  and 
dropped  into  wagons;  the  machine-gun  limbers 
went  round  the  corner  to  Madame  Boutroux's  at 
a  gallop.  And  it  was  the  same  everywhere  all 
over  the  village.  The  inhabitants  found  them- 
selves suddenly  unnoticed,  alone  with  all  the  food 
and  crockery,  in  the  midst  of  a  quiet,  preoccupied, 
busy  crowd.  The  orderly  room  was  packing  up 
while  it  talked  to  the  brigade  on  the  telephone. 
The  signals  office  was  doing  astounding  things 


CHRISTMAS    IS    CHRISTMAS  85 

with  its  wires.  Then  they  heard  tramp,  tramp, 
tramp.  People  at  the  top  of  the  village  saw  the 
bayonets  flashing  in  the  pale  sunlight.  It  was  a 
platoon  of  A  Company  marching  up  the  slope. 
Tramp,  tramp  on  the  two  other  forward  roads — a 
platoon  of  B  Company,  a  platoon  of  C  Company; 
each  of  the  three  platoons  going  to  its  appointed 
spot  on  its  own  road.  And  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
at  the  mairie  and  the  schoolhouse — the  whole  of 
D  Company,  under  arms,  formed  up  outside  its 
empty  dining-room,  right-dressing,  numbering, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Already,  some  little  while 
ago,  as  it  seemed,  the  colonel,  with  his  intelligence 
officer  and  an  orderly,  had  been  seen  cantering  out 
of  the  top  of  the  village,  by  the  crucifix  and  the 
fir  trees.  Following  him  in  the  same  direction 
came  signalers  with  flags  and  lamps.  The  puzzled 
villagers  rubbed  their  eyes  and  looked  at  their 
clocks.  It  was  four  minutes  past  one. 

There  had  been  no  noise,  no  confusion.  Every- 
thing was  of  course  cut  and  dried.  The  brigade 
had  been  informed,  and  no  doubt  was  talking 
about  it  to  all  concerned.  Those  three  platoons 
had  now  spread  out  and  were  lining  the  outskirts 
of  the  village,  according  to  plan.  The  remainder 
of  their  companies  were  in  billets  quietly  waiting. 
D  Company  was  here  at  the  disposal  of  the  colonel. 


86  LIFE  CAN  NEVER, BE  THE  SAME 

Having  said  that  the  intelligence -officer  was  to  go 
out  and  reconnoiter  and  the  secohd-in-command 
was  to  go,  too,  he  changed  his  mind  and  went 
himself  instead  of  the  major.  This  was  only 
because  temperamentally  he  always  wanted  to  do 
everything  himself,  and  not  because  he  took  a 
gloomy  view  of  the  situation.  While  waiting  for 
the  horses  he  continued  to  discuss  things  with 
Antoinette,  getting  all  information  out  of  her. 
The  Germans  were  not  heading  this  way.  No, 
they  were  working  south,  say  two  kilometers 
behind  our  front  and  parallel  to  it;  that  is,  fol- 
lowing the  sunk  road  and  the  tracks  toward  La 
Sainte. 

The  colonel  had  gone,  and  things  were  dull  in 
the  village.  The  battalion  was  ready  to  move 
forward  to  the  attack,  to  move  sidewise  as  a 
reinforcement,  to  move  any  way  but  backward. 
Time  passed  slowly.  D  Company  took  off  its 
equipment  and  sat  down.  One  smoked  one's  pipe 
and  waited  for  orders. 

Out  on  the  waste,  where  the  colonel  and  the 
intelligence  officer  were  cantering  along  a  mud 
track,  all  seemed  normal  and  peaceful.  Straight 
ahead  one  saw  leafless  trees  on  the  edge  of  ruins 
that  had  been  villages  like  Sainte  Chose,  unduly 


CHRISTMAS    IS   CHRISTMAS  87 

\ 

tions  of  ground  with  seams  of  white  chalk  running 
across  them,  roadways  raised  on  embankments 
above  the  marshy  flats — and  all  that  was  the  line 
itself.  Far  away  to  the  left  there  were  higher 
ridges,  hummocks  with  firs,  and  woods — and  that 
was  where  the  unseen  river  crept  sluggishly 
through  the  ravines  from  the  German  position  to 
ours.  Every  now  and  then  one  saw  a  puff  of 
white  smoke,  and  after  a  time  one  heard  the  sound 
of  a  gun.  With  lulls  of  silence,  there  was  the 
usual  meaningless  rifle  fire  and  the  irritating 
tap-tap  of  machine  guns.  Our  batteries  lay 
dozing  placidly;  observation  balloons  hung  with 
lazy  lurches  in  the  quiet  atmosphere.  For  those 
who  knew  it,  the  scene  could  not  have  had  an 
aspect  more  restful  to  the  eye.  Out  here  it  was 
inconceivable  that  anything  had  gone  wrong.  The 
notion  of  a  serious  break-through  was  simply 
untenable.  Of  course  on  this  dull,  drab-toned 
heath  there  might  be  a  considerable  force  of  men, 
either  in  field-gray  or  khaki,  without  one's  imme- 
diately spotting  them;  but  the  colonel  did  not 
expect  that  his  reconnaissance  would  disclose  the 
enemy  in  force. 

"All  moonshine,  Richards,"  he  said  genially. 
"But  what  else  can  one  do?     War  is  war." 

"You  don't  believe  Antoinette  saw;  them?" 


88  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  We'll  see  for 
ourselves." 

They  went  first  to  the  exact  spot  indicated  by 
Antoinette ;  and  between  this  and  the  village  there 
had  not  been  a  sign  of  anything.  They  worked 
up  to  the  spot  from  the  left,  and  when  they  looked 
down  into  the  sunk  track  there  was  nothing  there. 
Then  they  rode  slowly  southward,  keeping  on  top 
of  the  bank.  At  a  point  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  short  of  the  main  road  they  dismounted  and 
gave  their  horses  to  the  orderly,  who  followed 
slowly  with  the  three  horses.  The  sunk  track 
went  deep  before  it  rose  to  the  surface  at  the 
crossing  over  the  main  road ;  and  the  colonel  and 
Richards,  with  their  revolvers  in  their  hands, 
crept  very  cautiously  to  the  edge  of  the  high  bank. 
They  had  heard  something,  and  they  were  both 
excited.  Distinctly,  unmistakably,  men  lay  con- 
cealed down  there  —  German  men,  talking 
gutturally  in  their  own  hateful  language.  Another 
moment,  and  they  peeped  over  at  them.  There 
they  were — Germans  all  right;  seven  of  them;  a 
non-commissioned  officer  with  a  red  band  to  his 
cap  and  six  privates;  no  helmets,  no  rifles,  no 
nothing;  recognizable  at  a  glance  as  prisoners  of 
war  escaped  from  some  neighboring  camp  or  cage. 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  89 

The  colonel  stood  up,  almost  apoplectic  with 
anger,  and  spoke  to  them  in  faultless  German. 

"You  damned  rascals,  what  do  you  think  you 
are  doing  here?" 

"Your  excellency,"  and  the  N.  C.  0.  raised  his 
hand  to  his  red  cap  in  a  most  correct  salute.  "We 
left  Alaincourt  last  evening,  and  have  thought  to 
get  through  the  line  before  dawn.  But  it  is  light 
when  we  arrived  here ;  so  we  have  thought  to  wait 
and  try  to  get  through  when  it  becomes  dark." 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?" 

The  anger  of  the  colonel  and  the  stolid  polite- 
ness of  the  Germans  rendered  the  interview  a 
strange  one.  Their  stolidity  made  the  politeness 
as  exasperating  as  impertinence.  In  the  circum- 
stances it  was  impertinence. 

"Scramble  up  that  bank,  you  blackguards — 
double  quick." 

"Yes,  sir." 

And  cumbrously  they  climbed  up  to  the  high 
ground,  and  stood  to  attention  while  the  colonel 
got  upon  his  horse.  On  the  road  the  foremost 
signaler  with  his  flag  had  just  arrived  perspiring, 
and  thus  established  communication  with  the 
village.  The  colonel  sent  a  message  saying  every- 
thing  was  a  wash-out.  Then  he  put  the  prisoners 
in  charge  of  the  signaler  and  the  orderly,  who 


90  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

looked  at  them  as  though  they  would  torture  them 
for  a  while  and  afterward  slaughter  them. 

"Pardon,  your  excellency,"  said  the  German 
N.  C.  0.  "You  are  doubtless  sending  us  to  your 
headquarters,  but  we  have  left  Alaincourt  yester- 
day without  rations  and  are  grievously  hungry. 
Will  your  excellency  give  an  order  that  we  may  be 
given  some  food  before  we  are  handed  back  to 
the  military  police?" 

"No,"  said  the  colonel,  almost  bursting,  "I'll  see 
you  damned  first;"  and  he  turned  his  horse  and 
cantered  away. 

In  the  village  it  had  been  tramp,  tramp,  tramp. 
"Halt  .  .  .  Left  .  .  .  Right  dress  .  .  .  Number 
one  platoon.  Dis-miss ;"  "D  Company.  Dis-miss ;" 
and  so  on.  Equipment  was  taken  off  or  put  away ; 
billets  emptied.  The  broken  thread  was  picked 
up  as  best  they  could.  Clotilde  and  Louise  got  to 
work  again;  Madame  Binet  and  the  others  put 
the  turkeys  back  in  the  ovens;  company  cooks 
recovered  their  joints  of  beef;  the  whole  village 
lent  a  hand.  And  soon  the  word  went  round  that 
dinners  would  be  served  at  three  P.  M. 

The  men  stood  about  waiting,  and  talking  rathes 
ominously.  "What  ab'aht  these  prisoners — eh,  old 
pal?"  There  was  a  strong  feeling  that  now  or 
never  was  the  time  for  the  Tenth  Battalion  tp 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  91 

begin  killing  their  prisoners.  The  true  tale  of  the 
alarm,  too,  was  now  known  to  all ;  and  poor  little 
Antoinette  was  anything  but  a  popular  favorite 
this  afternoon.  There  was  talk  of  deputations  on 
Aunt  Eosine,  with  petitions  that  a  hair-brush 
might  be  applied  to  Antoinette. 

But  when  the  transport  section  came  from  their 
lines,  they  spoke  up  for  Antoinette,  and  people 
listened  to  them.  After  all,  they  had  suffered 
most — every  animal  harnessed,  every  wagon 
packed  with  its  mobilization  stores — and  they 
really  knew  Antoinette.  So  gradually  public 
opinion  swung  round;  the  officers  defended  her; 
she  had  upset  everybody,  but  she  had  meant  so 
well.  One  thought  of  her,  such  a  pathetic  little 
figure ;  so  fearless  and  so  faithful ;  going  up  there 
all  alone  in  the  fog — to  guard  the  battalion  from 
surprise.  No  two  ways  about  it,  Antoinette  was 
the  stuff  heroines  are  made  of. 

And  it  was  all  quite  all  right  by  three  P.  M., 
when  the  battalion  sat  down  to  dinner.  Nothing 
had  been  spoilt;  everything  tasted  better  for 
having  been  kept  waiting  so  long.  All  was  gaiety 
and  laughter.  At  four-thirty  the  colonel  went 
round  the  dinners,  and  he  took  Antoinette  with 
him.  At  each  dinner  he  made  his  little  speech, 
the  men  chanted  He's  a*  Jolly  Good  Fellow,  and 


92  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Antoinette  sang  The  Marseillaise.  And  the  cheer- 
ing was  loud  enough  to  be  heard  in  the  German 
front  trenches. 

The  colonel  did  not  miss  a  single  gathering. 
After  leaving  Antoinette,  he  remembered  the 
special  dinner  for  the  main  guard.  But  he  only 
took  a  glance  in  there,  and  came  away  hurriedly. 

Then  he  went  to  the  orderly  room,  where  he 
found  the  adjutant  talking  to  the  brigade. 

"Sir,  the  brigade  says  the  corps  A.P.M.  is  on 
the  line,  and  would  you  care  to  speak  to  him 
direct?" 

"Yes,  I  would,"  said  the  colonel,  springing 
fiercely  at  the  telephone;  and  he  told  the  assistant 
provost  marshal  at  army  corps  headquarters 
exactly  what  he  thought  of  him,  in  good  old- 
fashioned  English. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,"  said  the  A.P.M. 
"I  don't  know  how  it  happened." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened,"  said  the  colonel. 
"It  happened  through  infernal  carelessness — 
nothing  else." 

"Where  are  they  now?"  asked  the  A.P.M. 

"In  my  guard-room." 

"I'll  send  an  escort  for  them." 

"Yes,  I  should  jolly  well  think  you  would." 

Then  they  laughed  and  made  it  up  over  the  wire. 


CHRISTMAS   IS   CHRISTMAS  93 

"I  say,"  said  the  A.P.M.  "I  hardly  like  to  ask 
it.  But  of  course  they  have  had  no  food  since 
yesterday.  Could  you  let  'em  have  some  biscuits, 
or  something?" 

"Well — as  a  matter  of  fact — it  seems  that  my 
chaps  have  given  them  a  share  of  their  dinner." 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  necessary." 

"I  know  it  wasn't.  It's  very  wrong.  It  made 
me  very  angry  when  I  saw  it.  But  it  had  gone 
so  far  that  I  didn't  know  how  to  stop  it." 

The  A.P.M.  was  laughing  at  the  other  end  of 
the  wire. 

"They  haven't  given  them  turkey  and  sausages 
and  all  that?" 

"I'm  afraid  they  have,"  said  the  colonel 
reluctantly.  "What  can  one  do?  There's  the 
British  soldier  all  over — always  a  damned  fool. 
The  only  possible  excuse  for  my  chaps  is,  I  sup- 
pose they  thought,  in  their  addle-pated  way,  that 
after  all,  don't  you  know,  Christinas  is  Christmas." 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT 

WHEN  the  war  broke  out  he  was  spend- 
ing his  summer  holiday  at  Eastbourne — 
a  naturally  attractive  place  rendered  to  him 
abnormally  beautiful  and  romantic  by  the  pres- 
ence of  Miss  Kate  Richardson. 

Katie  was  stirred  profoundly  by  the  great 
upheaval.  It  seemed  at  once  to  change  her  into 
another  girl.  She  cancelled  the  engagement  to 
go  on  the  motor  'bus  to  Pevensey  Castle;  she 
cared  no  more  for  tea  and  sweets  at  the  Arcade; 
all  she  seemed  to  enjoy  was  standing  in  the  crowd 
round  the  band  of  an  evening,  hearing  God  Save 
the  King,  The  Marseillaise  and  the  other  national 
tunes. 

"Hurrah!  Hurrah P"  she  cheered  shrilly  with 
the  crowd.  "George" — and  she  gripped  his  arm 
convulsively — "go  and  ask  the  conductor  to  play 
the  Belgian  hymn  again." 

"His  instinctive  shyness  made  him  demur.  "It'll 
look  funny,  me  pushing  right  to  the  front,  won't  it 
— I  mean,  conspicuous?  Besides,  they've  played 
it  twice  a'ready." 

94 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  95 

"Go  on.  I  want  it  again,"  and  she  gave  him  an 
eager  thrust,  speaking  to  him  as  he  slowly  moved 
away.  "They  won't  mind — nothing  matters  now. 
They'll  understand." 

He  moved  slowly,  he  thought  rather  slowly.  He 
worked  his  way  through  the  crowd  as  best  he 
could,  composing  his  apologetic  little  speech  as  he 
went;  but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  blazing 
circle  of  lights  round  the  balustrade,  somebody 
else  had  done  the  trick  for  him. 

"By  request,"  said  the  gallant,  uniformed  con- 
ductor: "Encore  line  fois;"  and,  after  a  wave  of 
his  baton,  the  band  struck  into  the  glorious  tune 
again. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Richardson,  when 
George  Hooper  got  back  to  her  side. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  somebody  else " 

"Hush !  I  want  to  listen.  This  is  the  Russian 
one.  Doesn't  it  go  through  and  through  you?" 

She  was  all  on  wires,  pressing  his  arm,  throb- 
bing, vibrating.  When  the  Russian  anthem 
ended  she  cheered,  waved  her  handkerchief,  tried 
to  get  on  a  chair  and  nearly  fell. 

"Hold  up,"  said  George.  "That  might  have 
been  a  nasty  accident." 

Then  the  conductor  made  another  announce- 
ment. "Eh  bien!  By  request.  Pour  la  derniere 


96  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

fois."  And  the  band  played  the  Belgian  thing 
once  more. 

When,  it  ceased  Katie  went  on  anyhow,  not  a  bit 
like  what  she  used  to  be — really  making  herself 
conspicuous,  if  people  had  noticed  her. 

She  was  all  right  when  the  band  had  stopped 
for  good,  and  you  got  her  away  from  the  crowd, 
down  on  the  sands  among  the  boats  in  the  moon- 
light. George  arranged  her  with  her  back  to  a 
large  sailing-boat,  and  kissed  her  affectionately, 
as  usual.  She  would  let  you  kiss  her  just  the 
same — only  somehow  it  wasn't  the  same.  Mys- 
teriously, something  had  gone  right  out  of  it.  She 
was  limp  and  careless;  her  face  was  cold,  and 
sometimes  slightly  wet  with  tears.  Also  she  made 
abrupt,  disconcerting  movements,  catching  you  on 
the  bridge  of  the  nose  with  the  rim  of  her  straw 
hat. 

"Hark!  What  was  that?"  She  had  disengaged 
herself  forcibly,  and  she  held  up  her  hand  with  a 
dramatic  gesture. 

It  was  a  feeble  echo  of  that  Belgian  thing, 
floating  to  them  from  the  region  of  the  Arcade — 
a  faint  music  made  by  a  harp  and  a  piano. 

"I'm  thinking  of  the  moonlight,"  said  Katie. 
*'It's  the  same  out  there — the  Germans  are  march- 
ing through  Belgium  under  the  moonlight." 

"Well,  they  haven't  marched  through,  not  yet." 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  97 

"Who's  going  to  stop  them?" 

"Well " 

"P'raps  they'll  be  unkind  to  the  inhabitants — 
innocent  men  and  women  who  aren't  fightin'.  You 
never  can  tell."  And  she  began  to  cry,  clinging 
to  him,  asking  him  to  hold  her  tight.  "It's  shaking 
me  to  pieces,"  she  sobbed.  "I — I'm  only  a  poor 
weak  girl.  You're  strong — you're  a  man.  Tell 
me  not  to  be  silly.  Hit  me,  if  you  like.  But  make 
me  believe.  Comfort  me,  George,  by  saying  that 
we're  going  to  smash  them,  and  punish  them,  and 
drive  them  back." 

And  he  comforted  her  to  the  very  best  of  his 
ability. 

"From  all  I  read  in  the  papers,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "you  can  rest  assured  a  very  complete 
punishment  will  soon  be  meted  out  to  the  aggres- 
sors in  this  war — perhaps  a  good  deal  sooner  than 
what  is  expected,  and  very  much  to  their  surprise, 
too." 

He  himself  had  been  stirred  by  the  outbreak  of 
war.  He  thought  of  the  varied  chances  of  life. 
Quite  conceivably  he  might  have  been  a  soldier, 
instead  of  being  a  warehouse  clerk.  In  that  event, 
he,  George  Hooper,  would  now  be  going  out  to  the 
war — or  have  gone  already — in  the  ordinary  way 
of  business,  taking  it  as  a  matter  of  course, 
thinking  it  just  as  natural  to  risk  death  in  Flan- 


98  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

ders  as  to  write  out  an  invoice  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  And  he  would  have  done  that  job 
just  as  efficiently,  no  doubt,  as  he  was  doing  his 
own  job.  Why  not?  He  was  strong,  powerfully 
built,  every  inch  a  man — as  Katie  had  been  good 
enough  to  say.  Of  course,  to  make  a  soldier,  you 
have  to  catch  him  young.  It's  a  trade,  soldiering, 
to  which  you  have  to  be  apprenticed  like  any  other 
trade,  but  there  is  no  insurmountable  difficulty 
about  it.  What  makes  it  seem  so  wonderful  and 
remote  is  merely  the  glamour  of  the  unusual — 
and  also  the  queer  sort  of  emotional  confusion 
produced  in  the  mind  by  the  blare  of  trumpets, 
the  roll  of  drums,  the  singing  of  these  national 
anthems,  and  the  rest  of  it.  And  another  thought 
confirmed  his  judgment.  He  thought  of  those 
Territorials.  That  there  is  no  real  mystery  in  a 
soldier's  work  has  been  proved  by  the  fact  that  it 
is  possible  to  acquire  a  smattering  of  it  rapidly. 
If  one  had  had  the  means,  and  could  have  afforded 
the  time,  one  might  have  been  a  kind  of  sort  of  a 
soldier  as  a  Territorial.  . 

He  was  conscious  of  the  glamour  that  appears 
to  surround  the  commonest  military  matters — 
more  especially  in  war  time — as  he  stood  watch- 
ing some  loaded  artillery  wagons  pass  through 
the  main  street  on  their  way  to  the  railway 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  99 

station.  Having  nothing  else  to  do,  he  followed 
them  as  far  as  the  station  yard.  They  belonged 
to  the  Territorial  Force,  somebody  told  him ;  and 
then  almost  immediately  he  recognized  an  old 
acquaintance  in  a  driver  who  had  just  dismounted 
from  his  horse. 

It  was  the  bathing-machine  man  from  Brown's 
machines  over  there  on  the  sands;  but  really, 
dressed  up  like  this  in  khaki,  hung  round  with 
equipment,  handling  the  horses  so  determinedly, 
he  appeared  something  quite  grand,  instead  of 
a  humble,  shambling  person  who  gave  you  a  pair 
of  towels  in  exchange  for  twopence.  George 
Hooper  made  sure  it  was  no  one  else  by  speaking 
to  him. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?" 

"Canterbury." 

"For  long?" 

"Can't  say.  Dessay  it'll  be  some  time  before  we 
get  acrost." 

Then  a  sergeant  gave  a  loud-voiced  order,  and 
the  bathing-machine  man  unhooked  his  horses  and 
led  them  from  the  wagon.  George  would  have 
liked  to  give  him  a  parting  tip,  but  no  opportunity 
arose.  In  fact,  next  minute,  a  policeman,  acting 
on  the  direction  of  an  officer,  turned  George  and 
all  the  other  sight-seers  out  of  the  station  yard. 


100  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Everything  comes  to  an  end.  Soon  now  his 
pleasant  holiday  was  over.  On  the  last  night  he 
had  a  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Miss  Richardson, 
after  the  band  program  was  finished.  She  her- 
self was  returning  to  London  in  a  few  days;  so 
there  was  no  painful  sensation  of  bidding  her  a 
long  adieu.  She  was  in  the  mantle  department 
of  a  West-End  draper's,  easily  accessible. 

"I  shall  call  for  you,  Katie,  at  closing  time  on 
the  Thursday,  and  see  you  home.  As  you  know,  I 
want  to  be  presented  to  Mrs.  Richardson." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  old 
Rudge  and  Bryce's  again,  worse  luck,"  and  she 
sighed. 

"How  d'you  mean?" 

"I'd  like  to  go  and  be  a  Red  Cross  nurse." 

"Never?" 

"I  would.  But  of  course  they  wouldn't  take 
me.  That's  reserved  for  the  swells — girls  with 
handles  to  their  names,  and  all  that.  There  was 
a  photograph  in  the  Mirror  of  one  of  our  cus- 
tomers— Lady  Edith  Bramshaw — in  the  nurse's 
uniform.  You  never  saw  anything  so  fetching 
in  your  life." 

"You'd  look  fetching,  dressed  however  you 
were.  But  don't  talk  such  wild  ideas." 

"Is  it  wild  2    George,  I  feel  I  must  do  some- 


THE  STfeAIN  OF  IT  101 

thing.  I  can't  go  on  just  the  same.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  was  a  man." 

"I'm  very  glad  you're  not,"  said  George 
gallantly. 

"Are  you?  Oh,  come  on.  I'm  tired.  I  must 
get  back  to  the  lodgings." 

"Stop  a  minute."  The  girl's  abrupt,  almost 
curt  tone  wounded  him.  This  was  his  last  night 
at  Eastbourne.  If  there  had  come  some  misunder- 
standing between  them,  he  would  settle  it  then  and 
there.  He  asked  her  to  explain  why  she  seemed 
to  care  less  for  him  now  than  she  cared  a  little 
while  ago.  "If  I  have  offended  you,  say  so  right 
out" 

She  said,  "No." 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it's  the  war.    I  am  upset  by  it." 

"So  am  I.  So  is  everybody.  But  I  should  have 
thought" — and  his  voice  showed  real  feeling — . 
"I  should  have  thought,  if  ever  a  girl  wanted  the 
love  and  the  affection  of  a  man — to  cheer  her  up 
— to  sustain  her — it  would  be  in  such  upsetting 
times  as  these.  You've  said  so,  yourself." 

"And  so  I  do,"  said  Katie,  melting.  "Yes,  I  do 
want  you,  George.  I'm  all  on  strings,  if  left  by 
myself.  Only " 

"Only  let  me  know  exactly  how  I  stand,"  said 


102  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

George,  with  firmness.  "Are  we  regularly  en- 
gaged or  not?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"That's  how  I've  understood  things,  Katie;  and 
meant  to  tell  your  mother  so.  But  I  am  not  the 
sort  that  likes  to  feel  himself  drifting  into  a  false 
position.  Now,  are  we  formally  engaged  to  be 
married?  Do  you  look  at  it  in  that  light  or  not?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do,"  said  Katie.  "Now  let  me 
go,  please.  It's  late." 

Within  a  week  he  saw  his  fiancee  in  London. 
He  had  been  introduced  to  Mrs.  Richardson,  an 
extraordinarily  genteel  widow,  and  had  spent  the 
evening  at  her  modest  but  comfortable  little  house 
near  Clapham  Common. 

Now  he  was  there  again,  sitting  in  the  front 
parlor  alone  with  Katie,  and  once  more  he  had 
the  feeling  that  things  were  not  absolutely  all 
right  between  them.  She  drew  her  hand  away, 
she  sprang  up  from  the  sofa,  sat  down  again  with 
a  jerk;  she  was  nervous,  like  a  person  with  some- 
thing on  her  mind.  When  taxed  with  it,  she  said 
she  was  merely  excited  by  thoughts  of  the  new 
English  Army;  and  she  explained  that  from  the 
mantle  department  of  Rudge  and  Bryce's  she  had 
seen  more  than  a  thousand  of  them  march  by  with 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  103 

a  Guards  band  playing  them  along.  She  sprang 
up  from  the  sofa,  to  describe  it. 

"They  looked  such  splendid  young  fellows — with 
the  sunlight  on  their  faces  as  they  stared  up  at 
us  girls.  We  were  waving  our  handkerchiefs  like 
mad,  and  they  kissed  their  hands  to  us." 

"They  aren't  all  of  them  so  young,  mind  you," 
said  George.  "I  have  seen  some  precious  old  ones 
going  into  the  recruiting  office  opposite  our  place 
in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard." 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  call  them?"  said  Katie, 
with  an  odd  tone  in  her  voice.  "The  old  ones  and 
the  young  ones  ?" 

"Yes,  what  do  you  call  them?  Kitchener's 
Lads?" 

"I  call  them  heroes"  said  Katie,  with  intensity. 

And  in  the  same  intense  manner  she  went  on  to 
say  explicitly  that  she  had  no  use  for  any  one  but 
heroes  just  now. 

George  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  he  looked  hard 
at  her. 

"Katie.  There's  something  behind  this — 
something  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  understand. 
Katie!"  And  it  seemed  as  if  a  sudden  inspiration 
had  come  to  him.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  think 
/  ought  to  go  to  the  war?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 


104  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"You  do?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

He  enlisted  next  morning.  Really  and  truly- 
incredible  as  it  may  seem — he  had  never  once 
thought  of  doing  so  till  now.  He  would,  of  course, 
have  come  to  it  in  time,  but  he  thought  things  out 
very  slowly. 

England  awoke  slowly — one  knows  that  phrase ; 
and  never  was  so  cruel  a  slander  uttered.  England 
awoke  quickly  enough;  but  the  authorities  told 
her  to  go  on  sleeping.  And  George  Hooper  was 
a  typical  Englishman  in  this,  that  he  had  always 
done  exactly  what  he  was  told  to  do.  His  mother 
and  father  had  made  him  a  warehouse  clerk,  and 
told  him  to  attend  to  business.  The  manager  at 
the  warehouse  told  him  to  come  to  business  early 
and  stick  to  business  all  day.  On  the  outbreak 
of  war  the  newspapers  told  him  that  business  was 
to  be  carried  on  as  usual.  Even  when  that  great 
leader,  Lord  Kitchener,  issued  his  appeal  for  men 
to  fight  for  England,  there  immediately  appeared 
amendments  or  belittlements  telling  one  that  not 
many  men  were  wanted,  and  only  men  who  could 
be  spared,  certainly  no  men  whose  coming  would 
dislocate  business.  Heavy  leading  articles  warned 
one  to  do  one's  duty  in  that  sphere  of  life  to  which 
it  had  pleased  God  to  call  one,  and  not  from  a  self- 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  105 

ish  love  of  adventure  rush  to  the  colors.  Thus 
it  had  never  occurred  to  him  for  a  moment  that 
he,  George  Hooper,  might  with  perfect  propriety 
desert  St.  Paul's  Churchyard  and  take  an  active 
part  in  that  other  tremendous  business  of  beating 
the  Germans. 

He  was  a  little  dazzled  or  bewildered  when  Miss 
Richardson  opened  his  eyes  and  let  the  light  in 
upon  him ;  but  a  few  hours  afterward  he  had  got 
everything  in  its  correct  perspective.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  from  the  very  first  he  had  been  pining 
to  go.  He  blessed  her  for  telling  him  that  he 
ought  to  go.  She  was  a  girl  in  a  million.  She 
was  a  wife  worth  winning,  worth  fighting  for, 
worth  dying  for.  He  wrote  to  tell  her  so — f rom 
a  camp  at  Colchester. 

It  was  eighteen  months  later,  a  winter  evening, 
when  George  Hooper,  on  his  first  leave  from 
France,  turned  up  unexpectedly  at  the  little  house 
near  Clapham  Common. 

"Katie,"  he  bellowed  from  the  tiny  hall,  as  soon 
as  the  maidservant  had  opened  the  door. 

"George!"  Miss  Richardson  uttered  a  little 
gasping  cry,  when  she  came  out  of  the  parlor  and 
saw  him. 

He  looked  enormous  in  his  military  overcoat, 


106  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  gave  her  a 
bearlike  hug,  she  really  screamed. 

"George!    You  almost  killed  me." 

He  laughed,  pulled  off  his  big  coat,  and  went 
with  her  to  the  sitting-room.  He  was  indescrib- 
ably changed  from  what  he  used  to  be.  It  was 
not  only  that  he  seemed  so  much  taller  and  bigger, 
that  he  was  so  much  more  alive  and  alert,  but  in 
his  eyes  there  was  the  look  of  people,  who,  like 
sailors,  are  accustomed  to  open  spaces  and  distant 
horizons,  and  his  voice  had  the  unconsciously  firm 
tone  of  men  who  have  been  in  command  of  other 
men.  For  the  moment  he  was  noisy  and  exuber- 
ant, and  he  seemed  to  take  everything  for  granted. 
It  was  nearly  supper  time,  and  he  took  it  for 
granted  that  he  was  going  to  stay  to  supper. 

Miss  Eichardson  ran  out  of  the  room  to  tell  her 
mother  this. 

"It's  rather  awkward,"  she  whispered. 

"Now,"  said  George,  when  she  returned,  "let's 
have  a  good  look  at  you." 

She  was  ten  times  finer  in  attire  than  she  used 
to  be;  also  much  grander,  or  more  like  a  lady  of 
fashion,  in  her  manner.  To  one  freshly  arrived 
from  trenches  and  muddy  French  villages,  she 
appeared  to  be  dressed  as  richly  as  a  princess. 
George  looked  at  her  with  smiling  attention; 


THE  STRAIN  OP  IT  107 

noticed  the  nicely  waved  hair  of  her  head,  her 
open-work  stockings,  the  marvelous  high-heeled, 
buckled  shoes,  her  blue  eyes,  her  little  sharp  nose, 
the  restless  mouth,  the  pearl  earrings,  the  move- 
ment of  her  absurdly  slender  arms  emerging  from 
the  delicate  fabric  of  the  loose  sleeves.  And, 
icuriously  enough,  he  had  the  same  impression  of 
surprise  that  had  been  made  by  everything  he  had 
'seen  since  he  jumped  out  of  the  leave  train.  He 
had  expected  to  be  struck  by  the  great  size  of 
things — the  immense  height  of  the  buildings,  the 
width  of  the  streets,  the  extent  of  the  traffic — 
and,  far  from  this  happening,  things  seemed  small 
to  him,  even  insignificant  when  compared  with  the 
mental  pictures  of  them  that  he  had  been  carry- 
ing about  with  him  in  France.  Katie  in  this  small 
room  seemed  small. 

But  the  room  was  very  smart,  with  many  new 
ornaments  and  decorations.  He  mentioned  the 
decorations  in  complimentary  terms  to  genteel 
Mrs.  Richardson  when  she  came  in. 

"Yes,  weliave  brightened  up  the  house  a  little ;" 
and  in  the  most  genteel  manner  she  gave  him  to 
understand  that  they  could  have  done  more 
brightening,  had  not  feelings  of  good  taste  and 
delicacy  with  regard  to  the  war  precluded  them 
from  making  further  outlay.  Probably,  before 


108  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

very  long,  they  would  be  moving  into  a  larger 
house  in  a  better  neighborhood. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  George  heartily.  "You've  been 
going  up  in  the  world,  of  course.  I  understand 
that  Katie  is  a  terrific  swell  nowadays." 

"She  is  head  of  the  department/'  said  Mrs. 
Richardson,  with  motherly  pride.  "Messrs. 
Rudge  and  Bryce  have  put  her  in  sole  charge." 

"Splendid!" 

"I  can  tell  you  it  isn't  child's  play,  George," 
said  Katie,  with  animation.  "We  have  expanded 
into  two  floors.  We  are  fairly  booming.  Our 
turn-over  last  three  months  knocked  all  records 
into  cocked  hats.  And  not  made  out  of  munition 
girls'  trade,  mind  you.  Not  much.  Our  custo- 
mers are  ten  per  cent,  of  'em  with  handles  to  their 
names." 

"They  work  her  to  death,"  said  Mrs.  Richard- 
son. "The  firm  rely  on  her  so.  However " 

And  she  gave  a  well-bred  sigh,  from  which  one 
might  infer  that  the  firm  behaved  all  right  in  the 
matter  of  remuneration. 

Then  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and  the 
servant  announced,  "Mr.  Fordham." 

He  was  a  thin  young  man  of  about  thirty, 
dressed  in  civilian  clothes- 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  109 

"I  hope  I'm  not  late.  But  you  must  forgive 
me  if  I  am." 

"We  know  your  time  is  not  your  own/'  said 
Mrs.  Richardson.  "Let  me  introduce — Mr. 
Hooper." 

George  had  greatly  embarrassed  Katie  by 
taking  the  diversion  caused  by  the  new  arrival 
as  an  opportunity  for  putting  his  arm  round  her 
waist  and  giving  her  another  squeeze.  Mr.  Ford- 
ham  stared  and  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"An  old  friend  of  the  family?" 

"Almost  a  member  of  the  family,"  said 
George. 

"Really?" 

"This  is  George,"  said  Miss  Richardson  hur- 
riedly, as  she  set  herself  free,  "of  whom  you  have 
heard  me  speak  so  often." 

"Yes?" 

"How  did  you  leave  the  regiment?"  asked  Mrs. 
Richardson  politely,  filling  a  gap  in  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Seven  hundred  strong — and  all  in  the  pink." 

"That  is  pleasant  to  hear.  But,  Mr.  Hooper, 
all  said  and  done,  this  war  is  a  weary,  weary 
business." 

"Yes,  it  seems  to  drag  a  bit  sometimes — even 
out  there." 


110  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"But  then  you  do  have  distractions,  excitement. 
You  are  not  compelled  to  sit  all  day  in  a  chair, 
staring  at  the  fire,  and  asking  yourself  when  it 
is  going  to  end." 

"No,  they  don't  make  us  do  that ;"  and  George 
laughed  good-humoredly. 

Then  supper  was  announced,  and  they  went 
into  the  other  room. 

"By  Jove,"  said  George,  when  they  had  taken 
their  seats  at  the  table.  "This  is  topping.  If  you 
knew  what  it  means.  England.  A  meal  at  Clap- 
ham — here.  After  what  I  have  been  seeing. 
Katie,  I  simply  don't  know  where  to  begin.  I've 
so  much  to  tell  you." 

"Tell  me,  to  begin:  What's  the  meaning  of 
those  stripes  on  your  arm  ?" 

"Sergeant!  I  am  a  full  corporal,  but  acting 
sergeant.  The  third  stripe  is  only  acting  rank. 
Don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  have  to  take  it  off, 
though." 

"Oh!  Then  they  haven't  made  you  an  officer 
yet?" 

"Officer?  No,  I  am  quite  contented,  thank 
you.  I  have  all  the  responsibility  I  want,  as  it  is." 

"Not  ambitious,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Fordham. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Katie,  "you'd 
be  keen  to  see  yourself  in  the  Tom  Brown  belt." 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  111 

"Sam/*  corrected  Hooper. 

"What  say?" 

"All  right.    Go  on  talking,  my  dear." 

"On  the  whole,"  said  Mr.  Fordham,  "I  take 
it,  the  life  is  very  jolly  over  there." 

"Jolly?    Oh,  yes,  you  bet." 

"So  I  have  always  imagined." 

"Bertie,"  said  Miss  Richardson,  "Mary  is 
offering  you  some  cold  partridge." 

"There  are  hot  cutlets,  Bertie,"  said  Mrs. 
Richardson.  "I  know  you  ought  to  have  some- 
thing warm  after  your  long  day." 

It  was  all  very  nice,  but  perhaps  a  shade  too 
genteel  for  perfect  comfort;  and  George  wished 
that  he  could  have  had  them  to  himself,  without 
this  stranger.  He  glanced  at  Mr.  Fordham,  and 
wished  him  at  Jericho.  Mr.  Fordham  seemed  to 
make  Katie  nervous  and  fussy.  Yet  why?  Mr. 
Fordham,  like  everything  else,  produced  that 
strange  impression  of  smallness  and  insignifi- 
cance. He  was  beautifully  dressed,  of  course,  in 
his  queer  civilian  clothes;  with  broad  lapels  to 
his  jacket,  a  colored  shirt,  and  a  jeweled  pin  in 
his  tie.  George  thought,  good-humoredly,  "Those 
were  what  we  used  to  worry  about — choosing 
them  with  care,  spending  our  wages  on  them, 
thinking  they  made  us  nuts.  Comic,  simply 


112  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

comic.  And  lots  of  chaps  talked  like  this  little 
fellow,  drawling,  and  trying  to  look  important, 
and  flushing  and  stammering  if  you  spoke  short 
to  them.  Comic/' 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fordham,  picking  up  the  thread 
of  his  talk,  "that  is  what  I  have  imagined.  Out 
there  you  have  hardships,  of  course.  But  you 
have  also  the  stir  and  bustle,  the  goodfellowship, 
the  camaraderie." 

"Yes,  we've  all  that." 

"In  a  sense,  it  must  be  a  great  relief  to  get  away 
from  the  wear  and  tear,  the  incessant  interrup- 
tions, the  ennuies  of  city  life." 

"Quite  a  change." 

"Like  every  one  else,  I  have  often  felt  the 
immense  attraction  of  it." 

"You  haven't  thought  of  giving  it  a  trial?"  said 
George,  none  too  tactfully.  "I  mean  by  joining 
up?" 

"He  can't  be  spared,"  said  Miss  Richardson 
hurriedly. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Fordham  languidly.  "I  am  one 
of  those  unfortunate  persons  who  have  been 
labeled  by  the  powers  that  be  as  'indispensable.'  " 

"He  is  in  the  Pamphlets  Ministry,"  said  Miss 
Richardson. 

"Head  of  one  of  the  biggest  departments  in 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  113 

the  Ministry/'  said  Mrs.  Richardson,  in  a  confi- 
dential whisper.  "They  work  him  to  death, 
because  they  lean  on  him  so.  Bertie,  how  many 
did  you  say  you  have  under  you?" 

"A  thousand.  Or,  to  be  absolutely  precise,  one 
thousand  and  seven." 

"Full  strength,  eh?"  said  George. 

"What  say?" 

"Bertie  used  to  be  at  Rudge  and  Bryce's,"  said 
Miss  Richardson,  "in  the  old  days.  He  was  chief 
in  hosiery." 

"Yes,  I  had  that  honor." 

"You  taught  me  pretty  near  all  I  know,  Bertie." 

"The  firm  must  miss  you  a  lot,"  said  George. 

"They  said  some  very  nice  things  when  they 
were  good  enough  to  release  me  to  go  to  the 
Pamphlets;  and  I  must  confess  it  was  a  great 
wrench  at  first — the  breaking  off  of  old  associa- 
tions. But  then  the  wider  scope  of  government 
work  began  to  appeal  to  me.  I  threw  myself  into 
the  organizing  part  of  it." 

"And  now  you  like  pamphlets  better  than  un- 
derwear?" said  George  abruptly. 

Mr.  Fordham  flushed  and  stammered. 

"I— ah— don't  follow." 

"All  right.     Carry  on.     You  were  saying?" 

But  Katie's  eyes  flashed,  her  thin  little  arms 


114  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

moved  restlessly,  and  she  turned  her  shoulder  to 
George.  She  seemed  to  think  that  he  had  been 
rude  to  the  other  guest. 

The  conversation  went  on ;  but  it  was  all  about 
home  politics,  the  strange  vagaries  of  home  trade, 
the  drift  of  home  fashions,  and  George  felt  rather 
out  of  it.  He  ate  heartily  while  the  others  talked ; 
and  when  not  eating,  he  glanced  thoughtfully  at 
Katie  and  Mr.  Fordham. 

"You're  not  going,  Bertie  ?" 

They  had  come  to  the  oranges,  and  Mr.  Ford- 
ham  looked  at  his  gold  watch. 

"Yes,  I  fear  so.  I  am  bound  to  look  in  at  the 
office." 

"Just  what  I  said,"  whispered  Mrs.  Richardson. 
"They  work  him  to  death." 

"Have  you  got  a  car,  Bertie  ?" 

"No,  not  to-night." 

"Then  I'll  send  Mary  for  a  taxi." 

"No,  I'll  walk  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and  pick 
one  up.  Good  night.  A  thousand  thanks.  So 
glad  to  have  met  you,  Mr. — er — Hooper." 

"Don't  forget  your  scarf.  It's  bitterly  cold." 
Katie  had  risen,  and  she  went  out  into  the  hall 
with  Mr.  Fordham. 

"Won't  you  pass  through  to  the  drawing- 
room?"  said  Mrs.  Richardson.  "I  must  ask  you 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  115 

to  excuse  me ;"  and  when  she  heard  the  hall  door 
close  she  left  the  room. 

"Now  for  it,"  whispered  Katie,  in  the  hall. 

"It  had  to  come  sooner  or  later,"  said  Mrs. 
Richardson,  going  up-stairs. 

"Well,  young  lady?"  said  George,  rather  grimly. 
He  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  seated  her  on 
the  sofa,  but  he  did  not  begin  any  more  hugging. 

"Well,  George?" 

"Now  that  Cuthbert  has  gone " 

"That's  not  his  name,"  said  Katie  angrily.  "His 
name  is  Herbert." 

"Herbert  then — Bertie.  So  Bertie  is  indis- 
pensable?" 

"George,  I  warn  you,  if  you  think  you  can  make 
things  better  by  abusing  him,  you  make  the  great- 
est mistake  of  your  life." 

"Who's  abusing  him?  He  said  himself  that  he 
was  indispensable.  And  he  is,  isn't  he  ?  I  mean, 
to  you,  as  well  as  to  the  State?" 

Katie  brought  out  a  handkerchief  and  put  it  to 
her  eyes. 

"Well,  my  dear,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  if  that's 
the  case,  I  think  you've  treated  me  pretty  meanly." 

"You've  no  right  to  say  that — it's  ungenerous, 
it's  unmanly."  She  had  jumped  up  from  the  sofa, 


116  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  she  faced  him,  with  her  blue  eyes  flashing. 
"Whatever's  happened,  you  brought  it  on  your- 
self. You  deserted  me." 

"Deserted  you?" 

"Well,  you  know  you  did.  When  I  wanted  you 
most — when  I  simply  couldn't  get  on  by  myself — 
you  threw  me  on  my  own  devices.  Oh,  I  don't 
say  it  was  wrong  to  go."  She  was  talking  very 
rapidly,  almost  hysterically.  "You  thought  it  was 
your  duty — the  right  thing  to  do — and  the  rest 
of  it;  and  you  went.  That  was  all  right  for  you. 
But  how  about  me?  No,  George,  if  it  comes  to 
speaking  of  meanness,  I — I  think  it  would  be 
pretty  mean  of  you  to  reproach  me." 

And  she  suddenly  sat  down,  hid  her  face,  and 
sobbed  hysterically. 

"There,  there,"  said  George,  patting  her 
shoulder.  "Don't  cry.  Don't  make  a  fuss  about 
it." 

"But  I  can't  help  making  a  fuss.  You're  so 
horribly  unkind  to  me.  You  don't  know,  you 
can't  know  what  the  strain  of  the  war  has  been 
on  us  girls  and  women.  It's  unbearable.  I've 
been  on  strings,  if  left  alone  a  minute.  I  couldn't 
go  on  without  support — without  some  one  to  cheer 
me  up  and  keep  me  going.  I've  thrown  myself 
into  it — Heaven  knows  I've  worked.  And  the 


THE  STRAIN  OF  IT  117 

crushing  responsibility!  At  night  I  dream  that 
I'm  carrying  the  whole  of  Rudge  and  Bryce's  on 
my  shoulders.  They  rely  on  me.  Mother  relied 
on  me." 

"/  relied  on  you." 

"And  so  you  could  have — if  you'd  stayed  at 
home.  I  was  lost  without  you.  Then  when  I 
began  to  rely  on  Bertie — when  I  began  to  admire 
him — seeing  how  magnificently  he  was  doing — 
seeming  to  carry  the  whole  ministry  on  his 
shoulders " 

"Yes,  yes.    Don't  go  on.    I  understand." 

"You  do  understand?" 

"Yes.  But  what  I  wonder  is  why  you  didn't 
mention  it  in  any  of  your  letters." 

"Because  I  was  thinking  of  you,  not  of  myself. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you,  but  then  I  thought  you  might 
be  disappointed.  And  it  would  be  easier  if  we 
just  talked  it  put  like  this." 

"I  see." 

"Perhaps,  too,  I  was  a  bit  afraid,"  and  she  gave 
another  sob.  "George,  don't  be  hard  on  me.  Re- 
member, I'm  only  a  poor,  weak  girl,  after  all." 

As  he  walked  away,  down  the  insignificant  little 
street,  he  said  to  himself:  "A  bit  thick,  that. 
I  must  say,  a  bit  thick." 

Then,  as  he  walked  briskly  along,  he  fell  to 


118  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

thinking  of  vast  spaces  and  far-off  horizons,  such 
as  one  would  find  in  the  colonies  of  Great  Britain ; 
and  the  simple  yet  big  life  that  people  led  there. 
Then  he  thought  of  a  nurse  he  knew  at  a  casualty 
clearing  station  near  the  Arras  road,  a  girl  from 
Australia,  with  large  dark  eyes  and  firm  white 
forearms.  She  had  left  home  and  comfort  six 
thousand  miles  behind  her,  in  order  to  tend  the 
sick  and  wounded,  under  shell-fire  sometimes.  He 
thought  of  his  talk  with  her  in  the  lane  by  the 
poplar  trees  and  the  river. 

And  he  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  walked  still 
more  briskly.  He  had  no  use  for  any  one  but 
heroines  just  now. 


A 

THE  CHATEAU 

THE  chateau  at  Mariecourt  was  the  typically 
charming  French  country  house  that  modern 
French  novelists  have  described  so  often;  and, 
although  in  the  war  zone,  it  remained  for  a  con- 
siderable time  quite  untouched  by  the  ugly  marks 
of  war.  Passing  it  in  the  early  summer  of  1915, 
one  saw  it  just  as  it  ought  to  be,  still  unaltered. 
The  village  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  little  hill;  and 
near  the  troughs,  where  one  halted  on  the  march 
to  water  the  horses,  there  were  gates  that  dis- 
closed an  avenue  of  lime  trees,  an  archway,  court- 
yard of  stables,  the  roofs  of  farm-buildings.  This 
was  the  business  or  workaday  entrance  to  the 
chateau.  On  the  left,  as  one  went  up  the  hill, 
there  was  an  immense  buttressed  wall,  surmount- 
ed by  stone  balustrades  that  showed  the  levels  of 
the  chateau  grounds  high  above  the  roadway ;  and 
French  'servants,  men  in  livery  and  women  in 
white  caps,  came  to  the  balustrade  and  leaned  over 
it,  laughing  and  talking,  as  they  looked  down  at 
the  column  of  troops.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  there 
were  gates  much  more  ornate  than  the  others,  of 
wrought  iron,  with  coats  of  arms  gilded  and 

119 


120  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

painted  in  the  proper  heraldic  colors.  This  was 
the  entrance  of  honor;  and,  as  one  looked  back, 
one  had  a  rapid  glimpse  of  the  chateau  itself  and 
all  its  pleasant,  prosperous,  dignified  Frenchness 
— a  large,  circular  lawn  surrounded  by  the  smooth 
gravel  drive;  white  walls,  innumerable  windows 
with  green  shutters  and  sun-blinds,  high  slate 
roof;  lower-roofed  wings,  turrets,  gilded  vane; 
and  a  glass  veranda  or  winter  garden  in  front  of 
the  ground  floor — a  place  full  of  palms  and 
flowers,  comfortable  chairs  and  sofas,  where  the 
family  sat  in  doubtful  weather. 

Perhaps,  too,  one  caught  sight  of  its  owners, 
the  Count  and  Countess  of  Beauregard — a  digni- 
fied, white-haired  old  couple,  with  a  lot  of  little 
children  that  they  have  brought  to  the  gates  to 
watch  the  English  soldiers  pass  by.  Seeing  them 
thus,  one  could  easily  imagine  all  the  rest.  Their 
sons  and  even  their  grandsons  are  fighting  for 
France,  and  more  than  ever  has  the  chateau  be- 
come the  family  home,  the  fortress  of  the  race; 
to  which  are  sent  these  children  of  the  next 
generation,  to  which  come  the  anxious  daughters- 
in-law,  where  will  be  found  the  warriors 
themselves  during  their  periods  of  leave.  And 
the  grand  old  heads  of  the  house,  although  so 
white,  so  old,  so  frail,  carry  themselves  with  pride 
and  courage  in  the  midst  of  their  country's  agony, 


THE    CHATEAU  121 

taking  care  of  the  children  and  the  mothers  and 
the  governesses  and  the  servants  and  the  farm 
people,  maintaining  a  modest  economical  state, 
guarding  and  protecting  everybody ;  always  when 
things  are  darkest  showing  the  greatest  fortitude ; 
making  hope  seem  easy  because  they  are  so  hope- 
ful; never  for  a  moment  allowing  the  home 
atmosphere  to  be  tainted  with  a  doubt  that  the 
cause  of  France  will  triumph  in  the  end. 

Also,  with  a  slight  effort  of  imagination,  one 
could  mentally  see  the  joyous,  peaceful  life  of  the 
place  in  the  days  before  the  abominable  war  began 
— say  in  the  autumn,  when  a  large  house-party 
assembled  for  the  opening  of  the  shooting  season. 
Every  one  of  the  forty  bedrooms  would  be  occu- 
pied by  the  family,  the  guests,  and  their  servants ; 
the  stables  would  be  full  of  saddle  and  harness 
horses ;  motor-cars — accepted  but  not  liked  by  the 
old  count — would  come  spinning  out  of  the  stable 
courtyard.  The  gentlemen,  gorgeously  dressed, 
would  be  banging  away  in  the  woods  all  the 
morning;  the  ladies,  in  marvelous  sporting  cos- 
tumes, would  drive  out  in  carriages  to  meet  them 
and  see  the  trophies  of  slain  game;  they  would 
probably  all  come  back  to  the  house  for  an 
immense  luncheon,  and  only  the  hardiest  of  the 
young  men  would  sally  forth  to  burn  more 
cartridges  in  the  afternoon.  But  there  would  be 


122  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

rides  on  horseback  through  the  woods,  along  the 
river,  and  over  the  hills,  in  which  the  ladies  would 
take  part;  much  lawn  tennis;  much  talk  and 
laughter,  and  graceful,  gracious  compliments.  At 
night,  with  all  the  electric  lights  blazing,  the 
chateau  would  seem  at  its  very  best,  and  doubtless 
the  ladies  looked  lovely  in  their  Parisian  frocks; 
after  the  tremendous  dinner,  couples  would  be 
seen  walking  through  the  moonlit  grounds,  stand- 
ing by  the  balustrades,  carrying  on  graceful  little 
flirtations;  other  couples  would  play  ecarte  and 
piquet  in  the  winter  garden ;  other  couples  would 
dance  in  the  big  ballroom ;  the  old  count  would  be 
extraordinarily  courteous  and  attentive  to  men 
and  women  alike,  telling  them  perhaps  a  few 
stories  that  they  had  heard  before  about  the  war 
of  1870;  the  old  countess,  with  her  favorite 
daughter-in-law,  would  go  up-stairs  after  dinner 
to  see  the  dear  children  safe  asleep  in  their  cots ; 
and  when  it  came  to  say  good  night  at  the  end  of 
the  evening  there  would  be  a  great  deal  of  kissing. 
It  would  all  be  much  more  intimate  and  domestic 
than  a  smart  house-party  in  England;  nearly  all 
of  it  the  family,  and  the  other  guests  such  old- 
established  friends  that  everybody  had  forgotten 
they  were  not  really  relatives. 
It  was  in  the  summer  of  1915  that  general 


THE    CHATEAU  123 

officers  of  the  British  Army  began  to  be  billeted 
at  the  chateau.  Troops  were  always  passing  up 
the  hill ;  the  khaki  flood  was  rolling  into  this  part 
of  France;  and  generals  commanding  divisions 
dropped  in  for  a  day  or  two  with  their  aides-de- 
camp, and  were  given  the  best  spare  bedrooms 
and  taken  into  the  bosom  of  the  family.  The 
count  ordered  up  from  the  cellar  his  choicest 
claret ;  he  was  absolutely  charming  in  the  welcome 
he  gave  to  these  red-hatted  guests,  and  there  used 
to  be  contests  of  politeness  about  the  dinner  hour. 

"My  General,  what  time  will  it  suit  you  to  dine 
to-night  ?" 

"Whatever  time  suits  you,  my  dear  Count.  If 
I  should  be  a  few  minutes  late,  I  know  you  and 
madame  will  forgive  me.  And  of  course  you  will 
not  dream  of  waiting  for  us/' 

"Oh,  but  indeed,  we  shall  wait  for  you,  my 
General.  We  shall  excuse  you  also;"  and  the 
count  had  a  superbly  benevolent  gesture  with  his 
gouty  right  hand.  "This  is  war.  I  myself  have 
made  the  war  of  1870  with  the  rest — and  I  well 
remember  that  while  campaigning  one  is  not  one's 
own  master.  Nevertheless,  to  live  one  must  eat. 
Therefore  at  your  leisure  you  will  decide  what 
hour  will  suit  you  for  dinner,  and  then  you  will  let 
us  know," 


124  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"You  really  are  too  kind.  Shall  we  say  eight- 
thirty  then  ?  If  you  are  sure  it's  all  the  same  to 
you." 

The  old  count  had  winced  on  hearing  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  but  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, bowed,  and  smiled. 

"Half  past  eight!  Delightful.  Be  it  so,  my 
General.  And  you  are  to  understand  that  in  all 
things  while  you  stay  here " 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  off  again  to-morrow." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  us.  We  lose  a  pleasure. 
But  as  long  as  you  stay,  you  will  understand,  I 
beg,  that  the  house  is  yours,  not  mine." 

The  khaki  flood  continued  to  roll  in,  in  bigger 
and  bigger  waves.  Generals  arriving  for  billets 
brought  more  and  more  staff  officers  witH  them, 
and  required  more  and  more  accommodation. 
They  took  the  salon  for  their  mess-room,  and  the 
custom  of  dining  with  the  family  was  abandoned ; 
then  they  took  the  drawing-room,  dancing-room, 
library  for  their  offices,  and  the  family,  pushed  out 
of  the  ground  floor  altogether,  narrowed  their  life 
as  much  as  possible  and  hid  it  on  the  first  floor. 

The  old  count  was  as  charming  as  ever,  not 
uttering  the  slightest  complaint,  still  acting  the 
kindly  host  if  he  chanced  to  meet  staff  officers  on 
the  stairs. 


THE    CHATEAU  125 

"Monsieur  is  the  aide-de-camp?  I  hope  your 
general  is  well  here.  If  we  can  do  anything  to 
render  his  visit  agreeable,  you  will  tell  me,  will 
you  not?" 

"Ah,  monsieur  is  the  aide-de-camp  who  acts  as 
camp  commandant?  Very  good  indeed.  Spare 
me  one  minute  of  your  time;"  and  he  led  the 
young  officer  through  the  kitchen — a  lofty  noble 
room — past  sculleries  and  pantries,  into  a  very 
small,  walled  garden  at  the  back  of  the  house.  "It 
is  nearer,  this  way.  Now  see.  This  is  my  wife's 
little  private  retreat,  but  she  has  thought  your 
general  might  like  the  use  of  it.  You  see,  it  is 
just  under  the  windows  of  his  room.  He  has  that 
private  door  there,  opening  upon  the  terrace.  He 
can  come  in  here  at  any  time  with  his  papers,  and 
be  quiet  and  happy — or  have  his  coffee  brought 
here  after  luncheon." 

"Thanks  awfully." 

It  was  a  jolly  little  place,  with  its  high  walls, 
roses,  creepers,  mown  grass,  and  in  the  middle  of 
it  a  tiny  square  fish-pond,  with  a  marble  pedestal 
rising  from  the  water  lilies  and  a  poised  cupid  on 
top. 

"Yes,  ripping,"  said  the  A.D.C.  "Now,  sir,  I 
am  ashamed  to  ask — crowding  you  up  like  this; 
but  our  artillery  general  and  his  intelligence 


126  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

officer  are  coming  this  afternoon.  Could  you  let 
us  have  two  more  bedrooms?  As  a  great  favor?" 

The  count  winced  and  pulled  himself  together. 
"From  the  moment  you  ask  it,  the  thing  is  done. 
I  will  speak  to  my  wife."  Then  he  smiled 
benevolently.  "And  in  exchange,  you  shall  do 
me  a  favor,  too.  All  those  horses  standing  in  the 
orchards.  Can  you  tell  your  men  so  to  attach 
them  that  they  will  not  eat  the  bark  of  the  fruit- 
trees?  I  must  explain  why  I  appear  so  trouble- 
some"— and  he  supplemented  his  explanation  with 
gestures.  "Experience  tells  that  when  the  bark 
of  a  fruit-tree  is  stripped  off  in  a  circle,  the  tree 
perishes.  You  forgive  my  importunity?" 

"Oh,  rather.  I'll  see  to  it  at  once.  They  know 
jolly  well  it's  strictly  against  orders.  I'll  go  and 
drop  on  'em  like  a  thousand  of  bricks.  They  have 
been  warned  again  and  again." 

"You  are  always  so  considerate." 

But  it  was  no  good.  Two  more  bedrooms, 
three  more  bedrooms — nothing  sufficed.  The 
countess  had  put  the  children  in  the  attics  and  the 
servants  in  the  lofts;  but  the  French  authorities 
wrote  to  the  count  saying  that  the  English  Army 
had  definitely  taken  over  the  whole  of  this  zone, 
and  that  room  positively  must  be  found  for  them. 
Then  the  count  with  his  entire  family  and  house- 


THE    CHATEAU  127 

hold  disappeared,  leaving  behind  them  only  a  man 
and  wife  as  caretakers. 

"Gone  to  Paris,"  said  the  woman,  sitting  in  the 
kitchen.  She  answered  curtly,  and  did  not  trouble 
to  rise  when  officers  entered.  "What  do  you 
want?  I  speak  for  the  countess  henceforth.  And 
my  husband  there  speaks  for  the  count/' 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  man,  none  too  civilly. 
"Oh,  I  see.  I  wanted  to  borrow  a  toast-rack/' 
"Such  an  article  is  not  available — as  a  loan." 
The  chateau  had  passed  into  another  phase  now. 
It  was  a  regular  divisional  headquarters,  used  by 
divisions  in  reserve,  and  a  jolly  good  one  at  that. 
When  you  passed  by  in  1916  you  saw  at  once  that 
it  was  completely  organized.  By  night  it  an- 
nounced itself  with  colored  lamps.  By  day  the 
flag  told  you.  Nearly  all  the  paint  and  gold  of 
the  heraldic  coats  had  peeled  off  the  gate,  and  the 
iron  had  gone  rusty;  but  there  was  a  drab-toned 
sentry  box  and  a  smart  sentry,  who  clicked  his 
heels  and  presented  arms  as  cars  dashed  in  and 
out.  The  circular  piece  of  grass  was  built  over 
with  huts.  '  The  winter  garden  was  full  of  busy 
clerks;  wooden  tables  ran  from  end  to  end  of  it, 
not  a  palm  or  flower-pot  remained.  The  drawing- 
room  was  labeled  "G  Office,"  the  library, 
"G.C.O.,"  the  ballroom  "A.  &  Q."  A  lorry 


128  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

working  the  electric  light  throbbed  and  shook  near 
the  archway  by  the  stable  yard;  the  signals  office 
was  just  inside  the  archway;  and  telephone  wires 
were  liberally  festooned  across  the  fa§ade  of  the 
house.  The  dairy  belonged  to  the  military  police, 
with  guard-room  and  so  forth.  All  those  huts  in 
front  were  offices  with  labels — officer  in  charge  of 
the  Royal  Engineers,  officer  in  charge  of  A.S.C. — 
artillery,  chaplain,  French  mission,  A.P.M.,  what 
not — an  inextricable  jumble  to  the  untutored,  but 
all  in  apple-pie  order  if  you  had  the  key  to  the 
puzzle.  There  were  wagons  in  the  grassless 
orchards,  and  horses  stood  tail  to  tail  all  down 
the  back  avenue.  Every  loft  up  here  and  in  the 
village  was  a  sleeping  place  for  troops.  Principal 
officers  slept  at  the  chateau,  and  juniors  in  cot- 
tages and  huts.  And  wherever  you  turned  your 
eyes,  you  saw  activity  and  movement — the  motor- 
cars buzzing,  saddle  horses  being  led  about, 
red-hatted  officers  jogging  at  the  double,  orderlies 
swarming,  fatigue  men  sweeping  the  gravel  or 
cleaning  the  windows.  The  whole  place  was  alive 
with  this  different  sort  of  life;  all  very  clean, 
well  kept  in  its  peculiar  way,  army-like,  British. 
Then  in  the  winter  after  the  fighting  on  the 
Ancre,  when  the  Germans  had  been  pushed  back 
and  the  line  had  shifted  a  little  farther  away,  the 


THE    CHATEAU  129 

chateau  passed  into  still  another  phase.  The 
neighborhood  became  what  is  called  a  staging 
area.  Divisions  moved  through  it  incessantly; 
tired  divisions  going  up  north,  rested  divisions 
coming  south,  new  divisions  just  arrived  from 
England.  Of  a  morning  all  the  wagons,  lorries, 
cars,  horses,  red  hats  and  troops  would  roll  away 
from  the  chateau ;  and  in  the  afternoon  or  evening 
they  all  came  rolling  back  again.  Only  it  was  not 
they  really;  it  was  another  lot,  just  the  same. 
General  after  general  slept  in  the  room  over  the 
little  garden,  rarely  more  than  a  night  at  a  time, 
till  all  the  divisional  commanders  in  France 
seemed  to  have  been  through  again  and  again. 
And  the  chateau  showed  the  wear  and  tear  of  it ; 
the  strain  and  fatigue  of  entertaining  these  hurry- 
ing guests  told  on  it  heavily.  From  without  it 
looked  shabby  and  forlorn.  Inside,  the  wall-paper 
was  peeling,  the  cornices  were  tumbling,  panels 
of  doors  were  broken  and  their  handles  missing; 
the  balusters  on  the  stairs  had  fallen  out ;  the  top 
floor  and  the  attics  were  almost  knocked  to  pieces. 
It  should  be  noted  that  all  damage  was  paid  for 
twice  or  thrice.  The  extraordinarily  high  rates 
allowed  for  billeting  by  the  English  in  France 
mounted  to  a  formidable  sum  as  rent  paid  for  the 
use  of  the  chateau.  A  French  liaison  officer  and 


130  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

five  or  six  subordinates  traveled  with  every  divi- 
sional headquarters ;  and  these  made  out  billeting 
certificates,  completed  all  formalities  with  the 
mayor  of  the  village,  and  were  careful  that  not  a 
horse  stood  in  the  stable,  not  a  man  slept  on  the 
floor  without  handsome  payment. 

It  should  be  noted  also  that  the  Count  and 
Countess  of  Beauregard  in  truth  had  such  fine 
and  patriotic  feelings  that  they  hated  this  billet 
money,  and  would  have  preferred  not  to  take  a  sou 
of  it.  On  leaving  their  chateau,  they  had  given 
orders  to  the  caretakers  that  everything  possible 
was  to  be  done  for  the  English  Army;  any  fruit 
that  ripened  should  be  given  to  the  general's  mess, 
vegetables  too,  and  wood  for  the  fires ;  and,  above 
all,  the  little  garden  was  to  be  kept  neat  and  tidy 
for  the  enjoyment  of  generals. 

But  Monsieur  and  Madame  Sellier,  like  bad 
servants,  released  from  supervision  and  control, 
obeyed  none  of  their  kind  master's  orders.  On 
the  contrary,  they  exploited  the  situation  to  the 
uttermost.  They  sold  the  garden  produce  to  the 
guests  at  exorbitant  prices ;  they  cadged  for  tips ; 
they  extracted  a  noble  revenue  for  the  use  of  the 
mess-room  and  the  kitchen.  The  British  Govern- 
ment does  not  allow  any  billeting  money  for 
officers'  messes ;  but  as  officers  fighting  in  France 


THE    CHATEAU  131 

/ 

find  they  can  not  do  without  a  place  to  eat  their 
food  in,  they  pay  for  it  themselves.  It  would 
have  broken  the  heart  of  the  old  count  to  charge 
extra  rent  for  this  accommodation;  so  his  care- 
takers could  safely  put  it  into  their  own  pockets, 
and  they  did  so. 

As  time  passed  they  grew  more  impudent.  The 
man  exchanged  logs  of  wood  with  the  cooks  for 
bully  beef,  Machonochie's  rations,  and  tins  of 
tobacco.  He  levied  tribute  in  the  stables  for  use 
of  ladders.  The  woman  took  the  countess's  bed- 
room for  her  own,  putting  a  reserved  notice  on 
that  and  other  doors.  She  reserved  for  her  own 
use  the  little  garden  with  the  basin  and  cupid, 
hung  up  clothes  lines  for  her  washing,  and  could 
be  heard  there  under  the  windows  screaming  at 
her  husband.  They  charged  now  five  francs  a 
day  for  the  dining-room  and  three  francs  for  the 
kitchen.  And  they  wished  that  the  war  would  go 
on  forever. 

"See,"  said  the  husband,  after  everybody  had 
cleared  out  of  a  morning.  "They  have  left  this 
behind.  It  isn't  worth  mentioning,  is  it?  They 
can't  want  it." 

"No.  Put  it  in  there ;"  and  she  pointed  to  one 
of  her  cupboards. 

The  man  had  a  special  cupboard  of  his  own ;  and 


132  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

into  that  he  put  the  little  finds  or  leavings  that 
appealed  specially  to  his  own  almost  insane  form 
of  acquisitiveness.  He  had  been  a  gamekeeper 
in  the  woods  once,  and  everything  connected  with 
shooting  fascinated  him.  He  handled  the  men's 
rifles,  looked  at  their  ammunition  pouches,  and 
watched  the  servants  cleaning  their  officers' 
revolvers.  He  was  not  quite  so  bad  as  madame. 

Once  when  a  harassed  camp  commandant  ar- 
rived with  his  people,  they  found  that  madame 
had  locked  up  the  dining-room  and  was  sitting  on 
guard  in  the  kitchen.  She  said  she  had  with- 
drawn the  privilege  of  using  these  rooms 
altogether. 

"Then  where  is  my  general  to  have  his  meals? 
Where  are  we  to  cook  for  him  ?" 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  spoke 
with  drawling  insolence.  "It  is  a  conundrum  for 
which  I  am  not  called  on  to  provide  an  answer. 
That  is  your  affair,  not  mine." 

"But,  oh,  I  say.  Really,  you  know,"  said  the 
poor  young  officer. 

Madame  laid  her  hand,  with  a  firm  gesture,  on 
the  dresser  by  which  she  was  seated. 

"One's  patience  and  good  nature  become  ex- 
hausted," she  said  firmly.  "This  invasion  has 
continued  too  long.  I  have  said  to  my  husband, 


THE    CHATEAU  133 

when  the  officer  made  trouble  yesterday  about 
payment  for  the  privilege :  Til  have  no  more  of  it.' " 
"Yes,"  said  the  husband,  "Madame  has  said  so." 
The  camp  commandant  was  in  a  hideous 
dilemma.  The  men  were  waiting  to  get  to  work 
with  the  mess  boxes  and  prepare  tea.  The  general 
was  due  in  an  hour ;  and  he  liked  to  find  his  mess- 
room  all  comfortable,  the  tea  nicely  laid  out, 
everything  reminding  him  of  home.  If  this  did 
not  happen,  he  was  apt  to  think  he  had  got  an  ass 
for  a  camp  commandant;  and  if  hard  pushed,  he 
would  say  so  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  Of 
course  the  camp  commandant  agreed  to  anything, 
however  iniquitous.  After  some  bargaining 
madame  unlocked  the  mess-room,  and  let  the  sol- 
diers enter  her  kitchen.  She  ordered  the  soldiers 
about  as  though  they  had  been  her  servants ;  but, 
the  rent  being  now  fixed  to  her  satisfaction,  she 
became  affable  enough  to  the  officer. 

She  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  not  ill-favored, 
with  large  dark  eyes,  a  neatly  dressed  mop  of 
greasy  black  hair  and  a  sallow  complexion.  When 
she  smiled  and  assumed  a  pleasant,  friendly 
manner,  as  she  was  doing  now,  she  showed  large, 
white,  even  teeth ;  and  her  voice,  which  rose  to  a 
scream  in  moments  of  anger,  grew  soft  and 
musical  as  the  voices  of  other  French  women. 


134  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Now  that  our  little  difference  has  been  settled 
amicably,"  she  said,  smiling;  "I  can  sell  you  a  dish 
of  pears  for  your  general,  if  you  wish.  My  pears 
are  beauties.  I  am  proud  of  my  pears." 

Then  the  French  liaison  officer  arrived.  He 
looked  very  smart  and  trim  in  his  pretty  uniform, 
with  the  blue  band  on  his  arm  and  the  velvet  and 
gold  on  his  cap.  When  he  heard  what  had  been 
arranged  he  was  indignant,  telling  the  camp 
commandant  he  had  done  wrong,  and  roundly 
rebuking  the  woman. 

"What  is  it  to  do  with  you?"  said  madame, 
raising  her  voice.  "Mix  yourself  with  your  own 
affairs.  This  gentleman  and  I  have  settled  the 
matter.  At  a  glance  I  have  seen  that  he  was  a 
gentleman,  and  therefore  I  consented  to  treat  with 
him.  You  I  utterly  defy." 

If  she  could  be  insolent  to  officers  of  the  Allied 
forces,  her  insolence  to  officers  of  her  own  army 
was  infinitely  greater. 

"You  can  not  keep  us  out  of  this  kitchen,"  cried 
the  Captain  Aubry.  "We  have  the  right  of  access 
to  the  family  cooking  fire.  It  is  the  law  of 
France." 

"I  maintain  no  family  fire  here,"  yelled  Madame 
Sellier.  "If  there  is  no  fire,  the  right  falls  to  the 
ground.  So  much  for  your  law," 


THE    CHATEAU  135 

"That  is  what  we  shall  see.  I  go  now,  on  the 
instant,  to  the  mayor,  to  make  requisition  in  form. 
I  telephone,  I  telegraph,  and  I  return  here  under 
brief  delay  with  the  gendarmes." 

"I  mock  myself  of  you  and  the  mayor,  too," 
screamed  Madame  Sellier. 

The  camp  commandant  drew  the  liaison  officer 
aside.  He  said  they  were  moving  on  to-morrow ; 
it  did  not  matter.  Moreover,  the  English  authori- 
ties disapproved  of  requisitions ;  they  wished  the 
army  to  respect  the  susceptibilities  of  the  French 
population,  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  them,  to 
do  everything  in  a  friendly  way. 

"Quiet  her  somehow,  old  chap.  If  she  goes  on 
making  this  noise  the  general  will  have  a  fit." 
And  the  camp  commandant  hurried  off.  He  had 
plenty  of  other  matters  demanding  attention. 

"It  is  the  principle  I  fight  for,"  said  Captain 
Aubry ;  and,  left  alone,  he  and  madame  had  a  tre- 
mendous nagging  match.  Before  it  was  over  he 
had  worked  himself  into  the  state  of  furious 
excitement  that  Frenchmen  only  reach  when 
feelings  of  patriotism  mingle  with  their  other 
emotions. 

"You  make  me  blush  for  you." 

"Blush  for  yourself.     You  speak  so  to  a  lady?" 

"I  look  round  in  all  directions,  but  I  see  no 


136  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

here.  I  see  a  personage  who  forgets  her  duty  to 
the  glorious  land  of  her  birth." 

"That  land  and  all  its  joys  and  comforts  have 
been  spoilt  by  these  English,  who  march  through 
our  kitchens  and  homes  night  and  day.  It  is  an 
intolerable  invasion." 

"OhP*  And  Captain  Aubry  almost  burst. 
"You  dare  to  permit  yourself  to  use  such  a  word ! 
It  is  unworthy  of  a  French  woman.  These  are  our 
friends,  and  you  call  them  invaders.  Suppose  it 
was  the  enemy  in  their  place?" 

"I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  worse,"  said 
madame. 

"Oh!"  With  gestures  and  words  of  horror, 
fury  and  disgust,  Captain  Aubry  rushed  from  the 
kitchen. 

He  was  absolutely  calm  again  by  dinner  time, 
peeling  a  pear  with  his  special  silver  pocket-knife, 
and  shrugging  his  shoulders  as  he  spoke  of  the 
affair. 

"The  woman  is  low  class — not  a  typical  example 
— without  heart,  and  probably  without  moral  vir- 
tue either.  The  mayor  tells  me  that  there  is 
suspicion  against  the  man  for  a  thief.  There  has 
been  a  plaint  lodged  at  one  time  by  a  certain 
division,  concerning  the  loss  of  a  revolver  in  this 
house;  but  the  mayor  has  forgot* the  numeral  of 
the  division.'* 


THE   CHATEAU  137 

These  caretakers  gave  the  chateau  a  bad  name. 
Camp  commandants,  speaking  to  their  "opposite 
numbers,"  passed  the  warning  up  and  down 
France. 

"If  you  go  to  Mariecourt,  it's  a  topping  chateau," 
said  one,  "but  they'll  do  you  in  the  eye  if  they 
can." 

"It  belongs  to  an  old  pincher  in  Paris,"  said 
another;  "and  he's  on  the  make  all  the  time.  He 
does  it  through  two  stewards,  who  simply  skin 
you  alive.  And  they're  so  damned  rude  about  it, 
too." 

Every  division  had  some  tale  about  the  harpy 
count  and  his  odious  representatives.  Really  they 
were  the  only  two  objectionable  French  people 
that  one  ever  met  in  France. 

So  things  went  on,  always  the  same,  until  the 
spring  of  1918,  and  the  German  advance. 

Then  for  two  days  English  troops  were  march- 
ing by  without  stopping.  They  passed  down  the 
road  beneath  the  great  buttressed  wall  and  the 
stone  balustrades,  in  an  endless  stream,  artillery, 
engineers,  infantry;  and  the  roar  of  the  guns 
seemed  to  draw  nearer  and  nearer.  The  chateau 
stood  empty.  There  had  been  some  confusion  in 
the  village  when  all  the  military  lorries  came  to 


138  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

fetch  away  the  inhabitants.  People  brought 
out  their  horses  and  harnessed  them  to  every 
farm-wagon  and  cart,  piling  up  their  furniture, 
bedding,  chickens,  and  children.  The  mayor  ran 
in  at  the  front  entrance  of  the  chateau  to  ask  if 
the  Selliers  were  going  with  the  convoy.  He  said 
the  authorities  had  proclaimed  danger  in  delaying. 
The  battle  was  not  prosperous. 

"Are  you  going  yourself?"  asked  madame. 

"No,  I  stay,"  he  said  proudly;  "because  I  am 
the  mayor.  I  stay,  whatever  happens." 

"And  I  stay,  because  I  am  Madame  Sellier,"  she 
replied  obstinately.  "Nothing  will  happen." 

The  mayor  trotted  away. 

"Therese,"  said  Sellier,  biting  his  fingers  and 
looking  in  the  direction  from  which  came  all  the 
noise,  "I  ask  myself  if  we  are  wise." 

Just  then  a  shell  burst  with  an  appalling  crash 
among  the  huts  on  the  circular  lawn,  and  the 
Selliers  ran  cowering  back  into  the  chateau. 

There  were  good  solid  cellars,  with  vaulted 
roofs,  and  they  spent  most  of  the  day  down  there, 
under  an  intermittent  bombardment.  Once  or 
twice  a  gigantic  explosion  made  them  think  that 
the  chateau  was  tumbling  about  their  ears;  the 
whole  fabric  seemed  to  totter.  The  rattle  of  rifle 
fire  and  machine-gun  fire  never  stopped;  it  ap- 


THE    CHATEAU  139 

peared  to  be  all  round  them;  they  fancied,  too, 
that  they  heard  shouting.  But  late  in  the  after- 
noon all  the  noise  moved  farther  off;  and  then 
there  fell  complete  silence.  Monsieur  and  madame 
came  up  from  the  cellar,  crept  into  the  garden, 
gazed,  and  listened.  They  saw  huge  shell-holes 
on  the  terrace  and  the  lower  lawns,  but  the 
chateau  was  untouched.  And  in  the  queer  silence 
after  all  the  racket,  they  heard  the  footsteps  of 
troops  still  marching  by.  They  looked  down  into 
the  roadway,  and  drew  back  terrified.  Germans! 

Five  minutes  afterward  there  were  German 
officers  in  the  front  hall,  and  a  divisional  head- 
quarters came  rolling  in. 

It  was  exactly  the  same — only  Germans.  Sig- 
nalers, orderlies,  clerks,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
These  men  in  gray,  with  their  ugly  helmets  and 
large  boots,  took  possession  of  the  kitchen.  They 
brought  in  their  heavy,  metal-clamped  mess  boxes, 
dumped  them,  and  grunted.  The  officers  in  their 
long  overcoats  passed  to  and  fro.  They  talked 
French  better,  but,  if  possible,  with  a  worse  accent 
than  the  English. 

The  Selliers  cringed  to  these  newcomers,  and 
yet  madame  had  the  temerity  to  ask  for  payment 
of  some  sort. 

"Silence  yourself!"  whispered  her  husband. 


140  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

The  Germans  laughed. 

Madame  exhibited  her  white  teeth  in  a, forced 
smile.  "I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "that  you  will  show 
us  consideration." 

"Oh,  yes.  If  you  behave  yourself  you  have 
nothing  to  fear.  If  you  play  the  fool  you  will  be 
shot." 

A  bullet-headed  elderly  officer  was  obviously  the 
camp  commandant — -but,  oh,  so  different  from  the 
silly-billies  of  the  past.  Not  a  gentleman,  one 
saw  at  a  glance. 

"Get  that  fire  going,"  he  said  to  the  husband; 
and  Sellier  went  on  his  knees  at  the  range,  and 
hastily  set  to  work. 

"Much  wood  will  be  wanted — or  coal,  if  you 
have  it — for  the  rooms.  Show  these  men  where 
it  is." 

Sellier  conducted  them,  and  presently  the  sol- 
diers came  tramping  back  with  immense  logs. 

Then  the  camp  commandant  said,  "Now,  my 
woman,  your  larder.  Show  me." 

"My  larder?" 

"Yes.     You  have  heard." 

And  reluctantly  she  opened  her  cupboards. 

The  officer  and  his  sergeant  examined  the  stores 
and  a  private  soldier  brought  out  all  the  eatables, 
fresh  or  preserved,  and  stacked  them  on  the 


THE    CHATEAU  141 

dresser.  They  reminded  madame  of  custom- 
house officials  that  she  had  met  with  once  years 
ago. 

"Have  you  nothing  else  to  declare?" 

They  used  the  very  words. 

"No  papers  left  by  the  English?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"No  arms,  no  maps,  no  secret  hidings  ?" 

"No." 

"What  is  there?"  and  he  pointed  to  a  closed 
cupboard. 

"That  is  my  husband's — only  odds  and  ends." 

"Yes,"  said  the  man.  He  was  fanning  the  fire 
that  he  had  kindled  in  the  range;  and  he  got  up 
from  his  knees,  looking  anxious. 

"Open  it.    Well,  have  you  anything  to  declare  ?" 

The  man  twisted  his  hands.  It  was  his  little 
magpie  hoard,  the  treasure  in  which  he  delighted. 

"Oh,  no,  sir.     All  private  property." 

"Then  why  do  you  hesitate  to  open  it?" 

"I  have  not  the  key." 

The  camp  commandant  made  a  sign  to  two  of 
the  men,  who  were  carrying  a  vast  log.  They 
advanced  methodically,  balanced  the  log  and 
swung  it  against  the  cupboard  door.  When  they 
had  smashed  the  door  they  laid  down  the  log  and 
opened  up  the  place,  disclosing  all  that  it  con- 
tained. 


142  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

There  was  every  kind  of  rubbish;  and  on  an 
upper  shelf  five  service  rifles,  a  revolver,  two 
leather  bandoliers  and  a  lot  of  ammunition. 

"Ach!  Good.  That  is  very  good.  Now  what 
have  you  to  say?" 

"I  will  confess  the  truth."  And  the  wretched 
man  told  the  absolute  truth;  saying  how,  foolishly 
and  wrongly,  he  had  stolen  the  things  from  the 
careless  English  and  stored  them  there  out  of 
sight. 

"Yes,  you  have  stored  them  against  such  a  day 
as  this.  You  are  not  a  soldier;  but  you  have 
thought,  With  these  and  the  assistance  of  vil- 
lagers whom  I  will  admit  during  the  night,  as 
arranged,  I  will  murder  the  German  general  in  his 
bed,  and  thus  rid  France  of  one  enemy. 
.  Sergeant,  make  out  your  sheet." 

The  sergeant  had  seated  himself  at  the  kitchen 
table.  He  produced  a  stylographic  pen,  some 
ruled  paper  with  printed  headings;  and  he  sol- 
emnly asked  his  questions.  Names  in  full,  age, 
profession,  and  so  on. 

"Therese    Hortense    Sellier.     Age    thirty-six./ 
Wife  of  Cesar  Leon " 

The  names  bothered  him. 

"Make  them  write  them  themselves,"  said  the 
camp  commandant.  And  the  terror-stricken  pair 


THE   CHATEAU  143 

were  made  to  write  their  names,  write  them  in 
capital  letters. 

"Search  them/' 

And  this  was  done. 

Madame  was  forced  to  help  in  cooking  the  din- 
ner, and  her  husband  in  washing  the  vessels ;  and 
after  dinner,  about  ten  o'clock,  they  were  both 
taken  through  the  stable  yard  to  the  dairy,  which 
was  now  being  used  as  an  office,  and  brought 
before  another  officer.  The  mayor  and  three  or 
four  trembling  villagers  were  there. 

The  officer  asked  the  mayor  about  these  two. 

But  it  was  all  unintelligible  to  monsieur  and 
madame — all  vague  and  confused  as  a  nightmare 
dream.  Something  was  said  about  making  an 
example.  If  people  behaved  themselves,  they  had 
nothing  to  fear.  If  they  played  the  fool,  an 
example  must  be  made  of  them. 

In  the  morning,  very  early,  one  heard  her 
screaming  in  the  little  reserved  garden  under  the 
general's  windows.  It  did  not  disturb  the  German 
general.  He  had  heard  the  sound  of  women's 
screams  so  often  that  he  could  sleep  through  it 
quite  comfortably  nowadays.  They  were  binding 
madame,  because  she  struggled ;  and  as  she  would 
not  stand  up,  they  tied  her  to  one  of  the  staples 


144  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

that  she  herself  had  fixed  to  the  wall  for  her 
clothes  line.  The  man  stood  by  her  side,  un- 
bound. 

The  statue  of  the  cupid  was  in  the  way ;  and  at 
an  order  of  the  officer  two  of  the  firing-party  put 
down  their  rifles,  went  to  the  basin  and  pushed  the 
little  statue  off  its  pedestal.  It  fell  with  a  splash, 
and  the  water  went  high  into  the  air. 

"Now  is  that  all  right?  Have  you  a  clear  field 
of  fire?" 

And  the  non-commissioned  officer  said  yes.  It 
was  all  right  now. 

"Load  I"  and  the  soldiers  put  the  cartridges  into 
the  magazines  of  their  rifles. 

"Assassins !"  shrieked  the  bound  woman.  "You 
can  not  do  it.  Oh,  say  this  is  a  cruel  joke.  Let 
me  loose,  and  I  will  laugh  and  forgive  you."  She 
was  half  mad.  "Assassins !  You  dare  not !  The 
English  will  punish  you.  I  warn  you,  they  will 
make " 

"Ready,"  said  the  officer.     "Present!" 

The  man's  face  was  white,  the  features  dis- 
torted, and  the  mean  mouth  twitching.  He  knew 
it  was  hopeless.  He  made  no  appeal  for  mercy; 
and  as  the  soldiers  lifted  their  rifles  some  old 
instinct  stirred  in  him,  so  that  he  raised  a  husky 
shout:  "Vive  la  France!" 


THE    CHATEAU  145 

"Two  rounds.     Fire!" 

The  report  of  the  rifles  made  as  much  noise  in 
this  confined  space  as  a  shell  bursting.  And  as 
the  smoke  floated  away,  one  saw  the  man  lying  at 
the  foot  of  the  wall  and  the  woman  still  erect,  her 
head  fallen  forward  from  the  shoulders,  her  face 
hidden,  her  black  hair  like  a  mop,  greasily  lus- 
trous in  the  faint  sunshine. 


THE  WOMAN'S  PORTION 

THE  long  summer's  day  was  drawing  to  a 
close.  Dusk  crept  into  the  room,  hiding  some 
of  its  ugliness  and  filling  its  blank  spaces  with 
gray  shadow,  while  Lizzie  Wade  moved  to  and  fro 
and  tidied  up  for  the  night.  The  most  important 
task  of  the  evening  was  accomplished — she  had 
put  her  baby  to  bed  in  his  commodious  cradle ;  and 
she  murmured  to  him  cajolingly  as  she  straight- 
ened out  materials  on  the  work-table,  closed  the 
work-box,  and  restored  the  tea-things  to  their 
proper  place  in  the  cupboard. 

"Mother  isn't  gone,  darling.  Mother  has  got 
the  newspaper — so  she  won't  have  to  run  and  get 
it — and  leave  you  alone,  you  angel.  Go 
to  sleep.  Hush-a-by,  baby  .  .  .  Oh,  drat 
those  children." 

Mrs.  Wade's  room  was  on  the  second  floor  of 
a  London  tenement  house,  a  populous  but  respect- 
able and  well-behaved  house,  where  one  might 
expect  quiet  and  consideration  from  neighbors 
who  are  aware  that  babies  must  not  be  kept  awake 
after  nine  P.  M.  The  older  children  of  the  house, 
however,  had  been  playing  at  soldiers  down  below 


THE  WOMAN'S  PORTION  147 

in  the  small  courtyard,  drilling  with  paper  hats 
and  wooden  swords.  No  harm  in  that;  but  now 
commanding  officers  from  every  floor  had  with- 
drawn all  troops  from  this  training  area,  and  were 
bringing  them  back  to  billets.  They  made  a 
terrible  clatter  on  the  stone  staircase  and  Master 
Wade  highly  resented  the  disturbance.  In  a 
moment  he  was  wide  awake  and  squalling. 

It  took  poor  Lizzie  a  long  time  and  many  bland- 
ishments to  resettle  him.  "There,"  she  whispered 
coaxingly.  "Be  good — mummy's  so  tired."  After 
the  success  of  her  efforts,  she  had  seated  herself 
again  by  the  cradle,  and  she  was  rocking  it  while 
she  looked  at  the  evening  paper,  and  strained  her 
nice  blue  eyes  in  the  gathering  darkness. 

"Go  to  sleep — go  to  sleep,  my  darling,  an'  dream 
of  dear,  brave  father  far  away  fighting  for  his 
country."  Then  for  an  instant,  forgetting  to 
whisper  soothingly,  she  stared  straight  in  front 
of  her  and  spoke  with  sudden  intensity.  "Dream 
the  war's  over  and  father  is  coming  home/' 

Father's  son  stirred  uneasily,  and  uttered  a 
fretful  sound. 

"There— there— there,"  she  whispered.  "Go 
to  sleep  and  le'  me  read  the  paper.  Oh,  I  suppose 
you  want  the  paper  read  out  to  you  as  usual" — 
and  she  recited  a  few  scraps  of  information  in 


148  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  droning  tones.  .  .  .  "  'Spite  of  repeated 
counter-attacks,  all  positions  captured  yesterday 
remained  in  our  hands/  .  .  .  Yes,  captured 
by  daddy  and  the  dear  lads." 

Presently  she  rose  and  looked  into  the  cradle. 
He  was  "off."  The  child  had  this  great  merit: 
once  fairly  asleep,  he  slept  solidly.  He  took  after 
his  father  in  that.  She  went  to  the  work-table, 
lit  and  regulated  the  oil  lamp.  The  room  was  bet- 
ter by  lamplight  than  by  daylight— one  could  not 
see  the  patches  on  the  screen  that  concealed  the 
bed,  or  the  blistered  paint  on  the  common  deal 
cupboard,  or  the  smoke  stains  on  the  plaster 
ceiling.  In  the  lamplight,  too,  young  Mrs.  Wade 
looked  still  younger,  less  care-worn,  almost  pretty, 
with  darker-colored  eyes  and  hair,  and  some  added 
refinement  of  curves  and  modeling  about  her 
chin  and  lips. 

"Bother!"    Somebody  at  the  door. 

"Good  evenin'." 

A  neighbor  had  come  in  for  a  few  moments' 
chat. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Jones." 

Mrs.  Jones  was  middle-aged,  a  big  jolly  sort  of 
woman,  with  habitual  fondness  of  jokes  and  oc- 
casional lapses  to  lugubriousness. 

"How's  young  two-and-six?"  she  asked  politely. 


THE  WOMAN'S  PORTION  149 

"Don't  wake  him,"  said  Mrs.  Wade.  "He's  only 
just  off." 

"May  I  'ave  a  peep  at  him?"  and  in  a  knowledg- 
able,  matronly  fashion  Mrs.  Jones  investigated  the; 
cradle. 

"To  think,"  said  Lizzie  Wade,  "that  his  father 
has  never  seen  him — wouldn't  recognize  his  own 
child." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  with  jovial 
playfulness,  "so  long  as  he  really  is  his  own 
child." 

"Oh,  he's  his  all  right,"  and  Mrs.  Wade  laughed, 
and  tossed  her  head. 

Mrs.  Jones  sighed.  "Well,  I've  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  I  thank  Providence  that  Mr.  Jones 
was  too  old  for  it,  and  could  keep  outside  these 
dreadful  times.  Not  but  what  he  does  his  bit — 
in  a  way." 

"What  way?" 

"Knocks  off  work  Wednesday  afternoon  as  well 
as  Saturday." 

"Oh,"  said  Lizzie  blankly. 

"Holds  himself  free  for  any  service  he  might 
be  called  on." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Lizzie  sympathetically.  "And 
is  he  ever  called  on  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.    It's  very  inconvenient 


150  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

for  me.  But  lor'  " — and  Mrs.  Jones  became  quite 
cheerful  again — "what's  the  use  of  grumbling? 
The  inconvenience  those  inhuman  fiends  have 
caused  everybody !  D'you  think  we're  goin'  to  beat 
'em  in  the  end?" 

"Of  course  we  are — that  is,  if  we've  enough 
men  like  my  husband." 

"My  word,  you  are  proud  of  him." 
"And  haven't  I  the  right?"  said  Lizzie.  "It's 
my  pride  in  him  that  sustains  me.  He  was  among 
the  first  to  volunteer.  He's  a  full  corporal 
already."  There  was  something  really  fine  in  her 
aspect  as  she  spoke  thus  enthusiastically.  She 
held  herself  erect ;  her  eyes,  her  whole  face,  shone. 
She  went  on  eagerly.  "Corporal — B  Company! 
Perhaps  you  don't  know  the  ranks  ?  He  was  made 
lance-corporal  first — then  they  raised  him.  Above 
that  is  sergeant." 

"Where  does  the  colonel  come  in?" 
"Oh,  he's  over  them  all.    I  believe  the  colonel 
thinks  highly  of  Jim — they  all  do." 

"I'm  sure  they  do,"  said  Mrs.  Jones  cordially, 
"an*  you're  to  be  congrat'lated  on  him.  How  was 
he  when  he  last  wrote?" 

"In  the  pink.    Those  were  his  own  words." 
"Ah,  they  all  say  it's  a  healthy  life — in  a  sense. 


THE    WOMAN'S    PORTION  151 

Not  in  others,  of  course/'  and  Mrs.  Jones  laughed. 
"What  part  did  he  write  from?" 

"They  mayn't  say  where.  But  it  was  a  part 
they'd  just  re-conquered.  I'll  read  what  he  said. 
Shall  I?" 

Mrs.  Jones  courteously  repressed  an  inclina-< 
tion  to  yawn.    "Cert'nly.    By  all  means." 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Lizzie  Wade  eagerly.  She 
had  brought  the  letter  from  her  work-box,  where 
it  lay  treasured  more  than  needles  and  thread.  "I 
tell  you  your  blood  will  boil.  This  is  the  bit,"  and 
she  read  aloud.  "  'When  we  took  the  village  there 
were  only  a  few  old  men  and  women  left  in  it. 
Ten  days  before,  the  rest  were  marched  off  by 
Germans.  They  paraded  all  the  girls  over  thir- 
teen and  the  women  under  thirty-five  in  one 
company  in  the  street,  and  marched  them  away 
separate.  They  passed  their  mothers  and  rela- 
tions in  the  open  street,  and  the  German  soldiers 
were  hitting  them  with  their  fists  and  the  butts  of 
their  rifles  when  they  tried  to  get  one  last  kiss 
and  hug/  .  .  .  There!  What  do  you  say 
to  that?" 

Mrs.  Jones  said:  "Well,  upon  my  word.  What 
next?"  And  both  women  sat  for  a  few  moments 
silent,  thinking  of  the  significance  and  the  infamy 
of  the  episode  that  Corporal  Wade  described. 


152  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Then  his  wife  went  on  reading  the  letter. 
"  'You  bet  it  makes  our  lads  half  mad.  I  feel 
myself  if  I  had  twenty  lives,  I'd  give  them  to 
punish  such  cruel  hounds/  " 

Mrs.  Jones  heaved  another  sigh.  "Yes,  and  he'll 
want  twenty  lives  before  he  has  done." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lizzie,  putting 
away  the  letter  with  fingers  that  shook  a  little. 

"Well,  I  mean — the — the  danger.  He's  bound 
to  take  risks.  Sooner  it's  over  fewer  risks." 

"Oh,  why  do  you  say  that — to  frighten  me  with 
what  I'm  always  thinking  myself?"  Her  lips 
trembled,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  in  piteous 
tones  she  confessed  how  greatly  she  longed  for  her 
husband's  society,  how  intolerable  life  seemed 
without  him. 

"Oh,  don't  take  on,"  said  Mrs.  Jones. 

"I  can't  help  it.  It's  you — you've  started  me" 
— and  Lizzie  stretched  her  arms  across  the  table, 
buried  her  face  on  them,  and  wept  bitterly.  "The 
war  is  too  long,"  she  moaned.  "It  isn't  fair  that 
the  same  men  should  be  kept  fighting.  The  strain 
is  more  than  women  can  bear.  I  want  him  back. 
Oh,  I  want  him  back." 

"'Ush!"  said  Mrs.  Jones.     "We  ain't  alone/' 

Indeed  another  visitor  had  appeared  at  the  door. 

."May  I  come  in?" 


THE    WOMAN'S    PORTION  153 

It  was  Mr.  Jardine,  the  curate  of  St.  Savior's. 
He  was  old,  white-haired,  shabby  of  raiment.  He 
carried  a  brown  paper  parcel,  which  he  deposited 
on  a  chair  by  the  door.  Then  he  advanced  diffi- 
dently to  the  table. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you — but  I  have  come  at  an 
inopportune  moment.  You  are  in  distress.  No 
bad  news,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Jones.  "She's  only  upset 
herself  talking  about  her  husband.  I  tell  her  she 
ought  to  be  very  proud  of  'im." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Lizzie,  raising  her  tear-stained 
face.  "But  I  can't  get  on  without  him.  I  want 
him." 

Mr.  Jardine  spoke  gently.  "His  country  wants 
him." 

"There's  others,"  sobbed  Lizzie. 

"They  are  all  wanted;"  and  Mr.  Jardine 
continued  very  gently  and  kindly.  "Compare  your 
fate  with  that  of  the  people  of  the  invaded  coun- 
tries. The  advantages " 

"She  has  her  separation  allowance,"  said  Mrs. 
Jones. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  didn't  mean  that." 

"And  a  half-crown  for  every  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Jones,  offering  a  further  suggestion  of  comfort. 

"Oh,  please,"  said  the  curate;  and  he  addressed 


154  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Lizzie   Wade    solely,    laying   his    hand    on    her 
shoulder.    "I  know  it  is  weary  waiting/' 

"It's  too  long — too  long.  It  isn't  fair  to  us 
women." 

"Think  of  the  women  of  Belgium,  the  women 
of  Serbia." 

"Let  their  own  men  fight  for  them,"  cried 
Lizzie,  with  unanticipated  fierceness;  "not  my 
man.  They've  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  and  her 
voice  became  piteous  again.  "I'm  all  alone  month 
after  month- — and  he'll  be  killed — and  I  shall  be 
alone  for  ever.  He  oughtn't  to  have  gone.  I've 
the  right  to  him,  yes,  I  have.  We  were  made  one 
— in  the  church.  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  him  go. 
He  oughtn't  to  have  left  me." 

"It  was  his  duty." 

"He  might  have  dodged  it.  Many  have;"  and 
Lizzie  bowed  her  head  upon  her  arms  once  more. 

"Ah,  no,"  said  the  clergyman.  "You  are  over- 
wrought. Those  are  not  your  real  thoughts.  You 
spoke  of  your  pride.  That's  the  right  thought.  I 
honor  him.  The  world  honors  him.  Suppose  you 
had  kept  him  here,  you  would  have  been  ashamed, 
miserable." 

"Of  course  she  would,"  said  Mrs.  Jones  cheerily. 

"Suppose  he  dies.    God  forbid — but  still,  better 


THE   WOMAN'S    PORTION  155 

so  than  that  he  should  have  shirked.  Think,  later, 
when  you  tell  the  story  to  your  little  girl." 

"It's  a  boy,"  said  Lizzie,  without  looking  up. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  "it's  a  boy.  Only 
child— so  far/' 

"Well  and  good,"  said  Mr.  Jardine,  for  the 
moment  disconcerted.  "A  dear  little  boy.  A  man 
child — to  inherit  his  father's  courage  <and  vigor," 
and  he  patted  Mrs.  Wade's  shoulder,  and  continued 
earnestly:  "Believe  me — I  say  it  with  all  rever- 
ence and  with  absolute  conviction.  If  God  gave 
you  the  choice,  to  have  him  here  by  your  side,  safe 
but  idle  while  there  are  still  blows  to  be  struck,  or 
put  there  in  peril  and  toil,  you  would  not  hesitate." 

Lizzie  Wade  stopped  crying  and  began  to  dry 
her  eyes.  "They  don't  even  give  him  leave,"  she 
said  sadly.  "They  promised  it*— and  they  put 
him  off." 

"No  doubt  it's  difficult  with  these  operations." 

"There's  always  operations." 

"And  they  will  be  crowned  with  victory. 
.  .  .  Believe  me,"  and  Mr.  Jardine's  smile 
was  very  kind.  "Now  be  yourself.  Be  very  proud. 
And  remember:  he  is  fighting  for  your  sake,  for 
his  child's  sake,  for  the  honor  of  the  Empire." 

Lizzie  Wade  stood  up,  pulled  herself  together, 


156  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  spoke  with  calmness.  "You  wished  to  say 
something  to  me,  sir,  about  some  work?" 

"Yes,  but »' 

"I  am  all  right  now,  sir — quite  all  right." 

"Yes/*  said  Mrs.  Jones,  "she's  all  right  now, 
sir,"  and,  with  apologies  for  withdrawing,  she 
moved  toward  the  door.  "I  tell  her  she  ought  to 
be  thankful.  I've  no  pride  to  sustain  me  with 
my  'usband.  Not  but  what  he'd  have  done  his  bit 
if  the  war  'appened  twenty  years  ago.  Oh,  noth- 
ing would  have  kep'  Mr.  Jones  out  of  it.  Good 
night,  dear." 

Mr.  Jardine  untied  his  brown  paper  parcel  and 
showed  Mrs.  Wade  a  gray  flannel  jacket  and 
trousers. 

"I  had  an  accident  at  the  children's  fete  on 
Whit-Monday.  Do  you  think  you  could  take  the 
stains  out?" 

Mrs.  Wade  examined  the  rather  threadbare  gar- 
ments, and  answered  confidently :  "Yes,  sir,  I  can 
easily  get  the  stains  out,  and  I'll  press  them  as  I 
did  the  others." 

"Thank  you.  But  not  to-night,  you  know. 
Any  time !  You  look  very  tired." 

"I  am  tired.     Good  night,  sir." 

Left  alone,  she  stretched  herself  wearily,  looked 
at  the  baby,  sat  beside  the  cradle,  and  picked  up 


THE  WOMAN'S   PORTION  157 

' 

tHe  newspaper.     Before  a  minute  had  passed  the 

newspaper  rustled  and  slowly  descended  with  her 
hands  upon  her  lap.     She  had  fallen  asleep. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  door  was  being  slowly 
opened.  Very,  very  slowly  it  opened  until  there 
was  an  aperture  wide  enough  to  admit  a  man. 
The  man  entered  the  room  cautiously,  closed  the 
door  softly,  and  locked  it.  The  man  was  in  uni- 
form, with  his  rifle  and  service  equipment.  The 
man  was  her  husband. 

"Jim!" 

She  gave  a  cry  of  delight,  rushed  to  him,  and 
embraced  him.  "Oh,  it's  too  good  to  be  true. 
Then  they  gave  you  leave  after  all  I" 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  Jim  heavily. 

"Come  and  look  at  your  son ;"  and  she  dragged 
him  toward  the  cradle. 

"Yes,"  and  he  went  reluctantly.  "For  goodness' 
sake  don't  rouse  him — and  speak  low.  I  don't 
want  no  noise  in  here."  He  glanced  at  the  baby 
in  a  perfunctory  manner,  and  then  released  him- 
self from  his  wife's  embrace.  "Let  me  get  these 
things  off." 

She  watched  his  every  movement  with  greedy 
eyes,  as  he  slowly  took  off  his  equipment  and 
softly  put  it  on  the  floor.  He  looked  well,  very  big 


158  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  sunburnt;  but  there  was  something  dull, 
heavy,  strange  about  him. 

He  pointed  to  a  chair  at  the  table.     "Sit  down." 

She  obeyed  him.  He  sat  by  the  table  himself, 
at  a  little  distance  from  her;  but  she  moved  her 
chair  to  his  side  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck. 

"Now,  let  us  talk  quietly/' 

"Aren't  I  going  to  get  you  some  supper?" 

"No.  I  have  no  appetite.  I  had  all  I  wanted 
on  the  way."  As  he  spoke  he  had  unlinked  her 
arm  from  his  neck,  and  he  took  her  hand  between 
his  hands  on  the  table,  caressing  it  clumsily. 
"Now — I'm  not  on  leave.  I'm  home  for  good." 

She  gave  a  gasp  of  rapture.  "Jim!  Trans- 
ferred to  home  service  ?" 

"Yes,  you  may  put  it  that  way  if  you  like,"  and 
he  paused.  "No.  I'm  out  of  it  altogether." 

She  tried  to  embrace  him.  "But  however  have 
you  managed  it — they  valuing  you  as  they  did?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  ...  I'd  bin  meaning  it  a 
long  time.  Fed  up.  Had  my  bellyful.  And  in 
a  secondary  manner  wanting  to  be  home  with  you. 
.  I  took  first  chance.  In  charge  of  pris- 
oners— escorting  them  down  to  the  'cage.'  When 
I  got  down,  I  made  pretense  to  twist  my  ankle — 
unable  to  walk — and  by  so  doing  got  into  the 
Dressing  Station — and  on  again  to  the  Field  Am- 


THE   WOMAN'S   PORTION  >  159 

bulance.  Out  of  that  I  legged  it — and  at  last 
found  myself  in  the  train." 

"But — but  without  permission — without  so 
much  as  a  railway  ticket?" 

"Not  so  fast.  I'd  provided  myself  with  all 
that." 

"You  had?" 

"The  warrant  book  lies  on  the  table  in  the  bat- 
talion orderly  room.  A  fortnight  ago  I  contrived 
to  provide  myself  with  a  blank  warrant  out  of  the 
bottom  of  the  book.  That  warrant  I  duly  made 
out,  and  took  the  liberty  of  signing  a  pretended 
officer's  name  to  it.  It  wasn't  such  pretty  nigglin' 
handwritin'  as  our  adjutant's,  but  it  carried  me 
home  safe  enough." 

Lizzie's  face  was  dead  white,  her  lips  trembled, 
she  could  scarcely  speak.  "But,  Jim,  they'll  miss 
you!" 

"Oh,  they'll  miss  me  all  right.  But  I  wasn't 
such  a  fool  as  to  put  my  own  name  on  the  warrant. 
No,  Corporal  Wade  of  the  50th  Battalion  Loyal 
Londoners  is  missing  from  3921  Field-Ambulance, 
and  Corporal  James  Wheeler  of  the  71st  Battalion 
has  traveled  home  to  England.  He  don't  exist — 
so  they'll  have  a  job  to  trace  him.  For  the  moment 
you  see  him  before  you.  To-night  he  subsides  into 
civilian  life  under  name  Number  3.  Twig?" 


160  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Appalled,  she  had  drawn  her  hand  away  and 
shrunk  from  him.  Her  voice  was  almost  inaudible 
as  she  asked  a  question.  'Then  you — you've 
deserted?" 

"Call  it  that  if  you  like!" 

"But  if  they  catch  you?" 

"They  won't  catch  me." 

"What  would  they  do?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 

"Shoot  you?" 

He  nodded  affirmatively.  "Make  an  example  of 
me.  They  said  I  was  an  example  to  the  regiment ; 
so  I  should  end  as  I  begun — an  example  to  the 
last." 

Lizzie  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She 
was  shivering  and  shaking.  "Oh,"  she  gasped, 
"it's  too  horrible." 

Jim  spoke  with  feeling.  "Liz!" — and  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  toward  her.  "You're  not 
going  to  turn  against  me?  Don't  say  you  won't 
stand  by  me." 

"Jim!"  She  gave  a  gasping  cry,  sank  to  the 
ground  by  his  side,  and  flung  her  arms  round  his 
knees.  "No,  I  don't  care  what  you  are,  or  what 
you've  done.  You're  my  man — my  own  man !" 

Hastily  he  put  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  to  stifle 
her  wild  outburst,  "Don't  make  such  a  damned 


THE   WOMAN'S    PORTION  161 

noise.  You've  got  to  help,  not  talk.  Stop  blubber- 
ing." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  listen.  No  one  saw  me  come  in.  No  one's 
to  see  me  go  out.  No  one  on  earth's  to  know  that 
I've  been  here." 

"No." 

"First  thing.  I  want  some  clothes  to  disguise 
myself.  You'll  have  to  buy  me  a  suit  of  slops." 

"Yes.    I  have  the  money." 

"Good.    Then  set  about  it." 

He  rose,  and  as  he  moved  from  the  table  his 
eye  fell  upon  the  gray  flannel  garments  lying  on 
the  chair.  He  picked  them  up  at  once,  and  began 
to  examine  the  size  of  the  jacket  and  the  length 
of  the  trousers. 

"Whose  are  these?" 

"Mr.  Jardine's." 

"Who's  he?" 

"A  clergyman.  He  left  them  for  me  to  take 
out  the  stains." 

"They'll  do,"  said  Jim  decisively.  "I  don't 
mind  the  stains." 

"But  if  you  take  them,  what  can  I  say?  It  will 
lead  to  discovery." 

"No.    I'll  send  them  to  you  by  post." 

She  watched  him  in  silence  while  he  took  off 


162  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

his  putties,  rolled  them  again,  and  put  them  in  the 
cupboard.  He  laid  his  rifle  on  one  of  the  cupboard 
shelves,  and  placed  his  equipment  on  the  rifle, 
after  taking  a  civilian  cap  and  muffler  from  his 
haversack.  He  told  her  that  she  must  somehow 
obtain  a  box  large  enough  to  hold  the  rifle,  and 
that  she  must  send  it  and  the  equipment  to  the 
address  that  he  would  give  her  by  letter. 

"A  strong  box — one  that  won't  break  in  transit 
— and  send  me  the  whole  bag  of  tricks.  Then  I'll 
bury  the  lot — or  burn  'em.  I'll  attend  to  that. 
Understand?  If  they're  seen  I'm  a  dead  man." 

Then  he  divested  himself  of  his  uniform,  be- 
stowed it  in  the  cupboard,  and  put  on  the  gray 
jacket  and  trousers.  Dressed  thus,  with  the 
muffler  round  his  throat  and  the  cap  pulled  low 
over  his  eyes,  he  looked  a  mean  and  sorry  kind 
of  cadger.  Yet  he  felt  well  contented. 

"Oof!"  And  he  blew  out  breath.  "The  relief 
of  it !  I'm  free.  Nobody's  slave.  My  own  master. 
It's  a  long,  long  way  to  Tipperary;  but  I've  got 
there  at  last.  .  .  .  Now  attend  to  me.  Don't 
be  wool-gathering.  I  am  Jim  Walton.  I  shall 
tramp  out  into  the  country — Essex  way — to  find 
a  new  home  for  both  of  us.  You  begin  your 
preparations  at  once.  Say  you've  got  employment 
put  of  London — say  Scotland.  Wind  up  your 


THE    WOMAN'S    PORTION  163 

affairs  here.  Pay  your  rent.  Destroy  all  evidence 
of  your  name  and  the  rest  of  it,  and  be  ready  to 
join  me  as  Mrs.  Walton.  I'll  send  you  these  togs, 
and  you  give  'em  back  to  the  parson.  And  you 
pack  me  those  traps  and  send  them  to  me  as  I'll 
direct" — and  there  came  a  touch  of  emotion  to 
his  hitherto  businesslike  tone:  "I'll  soon  get 
work.  I'm  strong,  an*  brave,  an*  absolutely 
'ealthy.  I'll  work  for  both  of  us.  The  separation 
allowance  is  a  loss,  but  you  shan't  regret  it.  You 
and  I,  lassie" — as  he  said  this  he  looked  at  her  very 
tenderly, — "you  and  I,  side  by  side,  against  all  the 
world.  An'  we'll  be  happy  as  birds,  little  girl— 
you  and  me  and  the  kid.  Nothin'  won't  come  be- 
tween us.  No  doubt  they'll  want  to  recruit  me 
again.  P'raps  they'll  do  it.  But  trust  me  to  do 
silly  Billy."  He  grinned  and  shook  his  head. 
"Yes,  in  spite  of  his  previous  experience,  it'll  take 
them  a  long  time  to  drill  Jimmy  Walton.  The 
war'll  be  finished  before  they're  finished.  So 
cheero,  sweetheart,"  and  he  kissed  her.  "Now 
peep  out  and  see  if  any  one's  about." 

She  unlocked  and  opened  the  door. 

"All  quiet?" 

"Yes." 

"You  were  asleep  when  I  came  in.  Go  back  and 
sit  as  you  was  then." 


164  LIFE  CAN  NEVEE  BE  THE  SAME 

She  obeyed  him,  going  to  the  chair  by  the  table 
and  sitting  there  with  the  newspaper  on  her  lap. 

"Understand,"  he  whispered.  "You  are  asleep. 
If  any  one  opens  the  door  or  asks  questions,  you 
know  nothing.  Nothing  whatever  has  occurred. 
By-by.  So  long." 

And  he  stole  out  of  the  room. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  the  walls  of  the  room  were 
fading,  and  that  light  began  to  shine  through 
them.  The  light  came  stronger;  everything 
opened  and  widened  till  she  saw  a  broad  tract  of 
country;  with  the  sun  shining  on  ruined  build- 
ings, broken  wire,  and  shattered  trenches.  It 
was  as  real  as  what  had  happened  just  now.  The 
chalky  torn  ground,  the  pathway  over  loose 
stones,  the  pile  where  walls  had  fallen — all  was 
solid  in  the  bright  sunlight.  Soldiers  were  walk- 
ing ;  soldiers  were  lying  down — -not  moving,  lying 
in  all  attitudes,  quite  still,  dead.  And  suddenly 
she  knew  that  her  man  would  be  among  them, 
somewhere  among  the  motionless  figures,  not 
among  the  soldiers  who  moved. 

Every  moment  the  vision  became  clearer  and 
stronger.  And  she  understood  everything.  This 
was  a  village  just  captured  by  our  troops,  at  great 
cost — the  dead  men  in  khaki  seemed  so  many.  The 


THE   WOMAN'S   PORTION  165 

dead  men  in  gray  were  Germans.  They  had 
fought  hard,  but  we  had  beaten  them  again.  Two 
English  officers  with  an  orderly  were  looking  at 
the  dead.  She  watched  them ;  she  could  hear  their 
voices. 

"This  was  where  B  Company  caught  it,  sir," 
said  one  of  the  officers.  "Good  old  B  Company. 
They  weren't  to  be  denied/' 

"They  never  are,"  said  the  other  officer;  and 
she  knew  that  they  must  be  the  colonel  and  the 
adjutant. 

Ah!  They  had  found  him.  The  younger  officer 
stooped  and  raised  the  heavy  head,  looked  into  the 
sightless  eyes.  It  was  her  man. 

"Wade.    Corporal  Wade,  sir." 

"Bad  luck,"  said  the  colonel.  "There  wasn't  a 
truer-hearted  man  in  the  battalion." 

The  adjutant  had  picked  up  something  and  was 
looking  at  it.  They  both  looked  at  it.  "He  must 
have  brought  this  out  after  he  was  hit,  and  died 
with  it  in  his  hands." 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  photograph,  I  suspect,  sir." 

She  knew  well  what  it  was — the  little  leather 
case  with  her  picture  that  she  had  given  him  such 
a  long  time  ago.  He  had  promised  to  carry  it 
always. 


166  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME' 

They  opened  the  case,  looked  inside,  and  read 
the  inscription : 

"Lizzie,  1915!" 

"His  wife,"  said  the  colonel.  "Poor  woman! 
Write  to  her  for  me — write  to  her  very  nicely,  and 
say  he  was  beloved  by  all.  Tell  her  he  died  as  he 
would  have  wished,  leading  his  section  to  the 
attack.  Say  he  did  not  die  in  vain." 

Instantaneously  the  vision  faded.  All  was 
darkness,  blankness;  then  the  walls  of  the  room 
showed  again  in  the  dull  lamplight. 

She  had  been  leaning  forward  in  her  chair  with 
outstretched  arms.  Now  she  sank  upon  her  knees 
and  raised  her  arms  above  her  head. 

"0  God,"  she  cried,  "merciful  God,  give  me 
the  choice.  Make  the  other  only  a  dream.  Make 
it  like  this.  Let  him  have  died — for  his  wife's 
sake,  for  his  child's  sake,  for  the  honor  of  the 
Empire." 

She  staggered  to  her  feet,  rubbing  her  eyes 
and  sobbing  convulsively. 

The  baby  was  awake,  too,  and  she  went  to  the 
cradle  to  quiet  him.  "Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear.  Mother's 
had  such  dreams — such  cruel  dreams.  Ssh !  There 
— there — there." 

Suddenly  she  started,  rushed  to  the  cupboard 


THE  WOMAN'S  PORTION  167 

and  opened  it.  The  shelves  were  empty,  except 
for  the  tea-things  and  groceries  that  had  been 
there  hours  before.  Then  she  went  to  the  chair 
by  the  table,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Jardine's  flannel 
jacket  and  trousers.  They  lay  on  the  chair  just 
as  she  had  folded  them.  They  had  not  been 
touched. 

A  man's  voice  sounded  from  the  court  down 
below — a  man's  voice  shouting  "Lizzie!"  There 
came  a  noise  of  people  in  the  stone  entrance  hall 
and  on  the  stone  stairs.  The  man's  voice  was 
singing  on  the  stairs :  It9 8  a  Long,  Long  Way  to 
Tipperary. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  her 
hand  upon  her  heart,  staring  at  the  door. 

"Lizzie !    Lizzie !" 

The  door  opened,  and  he  burst  into  the  room — 
her  man.  He  was  in  full  equipment,  excited, 
happy,  gay.  He  put  his  rifle  against  the  wall  and 
took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Liz,  my  darling/' 

"You've  come  back?    You — you're  alive?" 

"Alive !  Can't  you  see  me ?  Can't  you  feel  me?" 
And  he  hugged  and  kissed  her.  "Alive?  Lor' 
lumme.  Wild  with  life!  In  the  pink!" 

"But  how  have  you  come?  Why  have  you 
come?" 


168  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"What  d'ye  mean?  I've  come  for  Liz — an*  the 
boy.  Where's  my  son?  Show  me  my  son." 

But  she  had  got  between  him  and  the  cradle; 
she  was  holding  him,  struggling  with  him  wildly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  gasped,  "but  tell  me." 

"Don't  keep  me  from  my  son." 

Still  she  detained  him.  "You've  not  come  back 
for  good  an' all?" 

"For  good  an'  all !  Peace  hasn't  been  declared 
— not  as  I've  heard." 

"And  you're  going  to  return  to  the  battalion — 
I  mean  soon?" 

"I'm  going  in  ten  days — not  before." 

"They've  given  you  ten  days'  leave?" 

"Yes,"  and  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders,  held 
her  at  arm's  length,  and  looked  hard  at  her.  "Liz, 
this  isn't  the  welcome  I  expected.  What's  up? 
What's  wrong?" 

"Nothing.  It's  all  right ;"  and  she  writhed  and 
clung  to  him.  "Oh,  kiss  me  again.  I've  had  such 
dreams  of  you.  But  this  is  true.  No  dreams. 
Ten  days  of  heaven.  You  and  I." 

"Yes,  you  and  I." 

"Oh,  Jim,  my  brave  dear  husband!  There," 
and  she  stood  aside,  raised  her  head  high,  and 
spoke  very  proudly:  "Come  and  see  your  son." 


A  WIDOW 

HER  looking-glass  told  Mrs.  Burt  that  she 
was  still  a  very  attractive  woman;  and 
her  heart  told  her  that,  being  a  good  deal  nearer 
forty  than  thirty,  she  was  more  than  ready  for 
a  third  husband. 

She  thought  of  the  awful  slaughter  of  men 
during  the  war,  and  the  consequent  diminution 
of  the  chances  of  any  woman's  getting  a  mate. 
And  when  you  had  had  two  already,  and  were 
not  so  young  as  you  used  to  be!  Such  thoughts 
made  her  feel  almost  desperate.  All  the  young 
blooming  girls  who  had  lost  their  sweethearts 
were  now  to  be  counted  against  one.  She  thought 
of  the  chances  that  she  had  thrown  away  in  1913 
and  1914 — one  at  Harrogate,  one  at  Southend, 
and  half  a  one  here  in  Brighton. 

With  a  growing  indignation  she  read  of  young 
war-widows  marrying  again,  and  studied  their 
photographs  in  the  illustrated  newspapers.  Inde- 
cent. If  she  had  been  married  to  a  lad  who  gave 
his  life  during  the  war,  she  would  have  remained 
a  widow  to  the  end  of  it.  But  she  had  been 
single  throughout  the  conflict.  At  the  rate  these 

169 


170  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

little  hussies  were  devouring  survivors,  the  men 
simply  wouldn't  go  round.  The  authorities 
would  have  to  license  Mormonism. 

And  her  thoughts  drifted  off  into  the  realm  of 
speculation.  Would  it  come  to  that  at  last — one 
man  having  five  or  six  wives?  As  the  papers 
said,  the  world  was  now  being  driven  by  the  iron 
force  of  circumstances,  the  whole  fabric  of 
society  was  in  the  melting-pot;  more  unlikely 
things  might  happen.  She  fell  to  musing  on  the 
feminine  mind.  Could  one  ever  bring  one's  self  to 
be  satisfied  with  only  a  share  in  the  devotion  and 
care  provided  by  a  husband?  Perhaps  a  certain 
type  of  man  might  fulfill  the  obligations  of  so 
difficult  a  task — but  he  would  have  to  be  a  real 
lord  and  master,  somebody  quite  different  from 
the  late  Mr.  Burt  and  the  earlier  Mr.  Hopkins. 

Mr.  Hopkins,  her  first,  was  a  coal  merchant, 
and  Mr.  Burt,  her  second,  had  been  sometime 
borough  surveyor  of  a  moderate-sized  town;  but 
neither  of  them — No.  What  was  the  Latin  quo- 
tation? Nil  bonus  mortuary?  Let  bygones  be 
bygones.  Whatever  their  faults,  between  them 
they  had  left  her  about  eight  hundred  a  year  and 
some  quite  valuable,  if  old-fashioned,  jewelry. 

She  went  about  the  world  with  her  maid, 
Jenner,  staying  in  hotels,  or  boarding-houses; 


A  WIDOW  171 

and,  thus  escaping  the  burden  and  expense  of  a 
private  establishment,  she  was  really  very  well- 
off.  Indeed  Jenner  used  to  say  she  was  too 
well-off  to  be  so  eager  to  change  her  condition. 
Jenner  had  a  tea-making  apparatus  and  made 
afternoon  tea  in  the  bedroom;  and  if  Mrs.  Burt 
felt  low  of  an  evening,  or  at  any  other  time, 
Jenner  was  always  capable  of  serving  a  confiden- 
tial whisky  and  soda  without  troubling  the  hotel 
management.  By  these  little  arts  Jenner  kept 
down  the  bills  and  made  life  more  pleasant.  Old 
Jenner  was  a  treasure — there  was  no  other  word 
for  it — and  because  of  her  long  and  faithful 
service  she  was  allowed  considerable  freedom  of 
speech ;  so  that  when  she  and  her  mistress  chatted 
together  they  were  rather  like  the  heroine  and  the 
confidante  in  one  of  those  old  comedies. 

"There  you  are  again,"  said  Jenner;  "always 
at  it.  I  do  believe  you  never  see  a  pair  of  trousers 
but  what  you  think  there's  a  husband  inside  'em 
coming  your  way." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Burt.  "No, 
you  wrong  me,  Jenner.  My  taste  is  much  too 
fastidious.  I  should  be  woefully  hard  to  please, 
if  I  ever  did  make  up  my  mind  to  another  venture." 

"Oh,"  said  Jenner,  shaking  her  gray  head, 
"you're  top  romantic  altogether," 


172  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

But  she  was  not  really  romantic.  Although 
very  fond  of  show  and  fashion,  she  had  sharp 
business  instincts,  and  was  by  no  means  of  a 
naturally  trustful  disposition.  After  spending  a 
frivolous  hour  at  an  Oxford  Street  milliner's, 
choosing  the  sort  of  hat  that  she  fancied  would 
best  suit  her,  she  would  go  to  the  bank  in 
Chancery  Lane  and  methodically  clip  off  the  ripe 
coupons  from  her  bearer  bonds.  She  kept  them 
in  a  locked  box,  and  did  not  care  for  the  notion  of 
the  manager  playing  with  them.  Also  she  was 
quick  to  think  herself  imposed  on  at  railway 
booking-offices. 

"You've  given  me  short  change." 

"No,  I  haven't." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  you  have ;  and  if  you  don't 
refund  this  instant,  I'll  go  straight  to  the  station- 
master." 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  your  ticket?  It's 
marked  plain  enough.  One-and-three." 

"Oh!"  The  fare  had  been  raised  again. 
"Shameful!"  She  went  away  repeating  the 
word. 

Well,  then,  having  been  dressed  by  Jenner  after 
tea  one  day,  she  came  down  the  stairs  at 
Versailles,  Regency  Square,  Brighton,  looking 
very  grand  indeed.  She  was  a  large  lady,  with 


A  WIDOW  173 

nut-brown  hair  and  a  florid  complexion ;  her  satin 
blouse  had  the  richest  embroidery,  and  was 
further  decorated  by  her  big  diamond  crescent  and 
a  ruby  locket;  her  skirts  had  the  rustle  that  can 
only  be  made  by  the  best  silk,  though  so  often 
imitated  with  inferior  materials.  She  passed 
through  the  lounge-hall,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
on  the  steps  outside  the  front  door.  It  was  a 
glorious  August  afternoon.  People  were  sitting 
on  the  steps  of  boarding-houses  on  the  other  side 
of  the  square ;  a  gay  crowd  filled  the  King's  Road, 
and  from  the  pier  there  came  sounds  of  music; 
now  and  then  a  motor-car  slipped  by  with 
wounded  soldiers  in  blue.  One  saw  soldiers  in 
khaki  everywhere,  and  hundreds  of  flaunting  girls 
— munition  workers,  as  she  judged — following 
them,  or  hanging  on  to  them,  or  impudently 
making  their  acquaintance  without  formal 
introduction.  The  sea,  the  asphalt,  the  glass 
shelters,  all  glittered  and  flashed  in  the  warm 
sunlight. 

Mrs.  Burt  came  back  to  the  lounge,  sat  down, 
picked  up  a  copy  of  that  admirably  illustrated 
daily,  The  Glass  of  Fashion,  and  sighed  softly. 

Next  moment  she  became  aware  of  the  officer. 
He  was  in  uniform — a  big  bold  man  of  about 
thirty-five;  handsome,  too,  except  for  the  mark 


174  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

of  the  saber  cut  on  his  nose.  And  that  is  a  merit, 
rather  than  a  disfigurement,  nowadays.  He  carried 
a  swagger  cane,  and  he  slapped  his  leg  with  it 
now  and  then.  He  moved  about,  and  stared  at 
the  few  people  sitting  in  the  lounge  in  a  way  that 
made  you  lower  your  eyes  or  look  at  your  paper. 
He  had  put  Mrs.  Burt  in  something  of  a  flutter 
even  before  he  took  an  empty  chair  near  her  and 
opened  a  conversation. 

He  told  her  his  name  at  once — Captain 
Shelley. 

"There  is  a  poet  of  that  name,"  said  Mrs.  Burt, 
with  her  finest  manner.  "Any  relation?" 

"Yes — but  distant.     I've  never  met  him." 

"Poetry  hasn't  come  out  in  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not  a  poet;"  and  he  had  a  devil- 
may-care  laugh.  "I  like  reality — something  solid 
that  I  can  grapple  with,"  and  he  looked  hard  at 
her.  "Not  airy  fairy  nonsense." 

Mrs.  Burt  dropped  her  eyes,  and  then  spoke 
with  an  assumption  of  casual  politeness. 

"On  leave?" 

"No,  light  duty." 

"I  dare  say  you've  earned  a  little  repose  by 
;what  you've  gone  through." 

"Well,  I've  been  in  it  from  the  beginning;"  and 
he  told  her  about  the  saber  cut — done  by  Uhlans 


A  WIDOW  175 

in  the  retreat  from  Mons.  Three  of  them,  how- 
ever, had  bit  the  dust  for  doing  it. 

Mrs.  Burt  shivered.  "I  think  you  are  all  of 
you  too  splendid  for  words.  But,  oh,  it  is  so 
dreadful." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that;"  and  he  laughed 
again. s 

They  sat  talking;  and  some  of  the  things  he 
oaid  and  his  manner  of  saying  them  filled  her 
with  a  delicious  confusion.  Presently  one  of  the 
beribboned  maids  came  and  beat  the  gong,  and 
the  captain  started  at  the  noise. 

"What  the  dickens  is  it?" 

"Only  dressing  gong.  Not  dinner.  Personally, 
I  am  already  dressed." 

"Yes,  so  I  should  imagine.  You  could  hardly 
make  yourself  more  gorgeous,  could  you?" 

"Oh,  please " 

Then  he  told  her  about  shell-shock.  He  had 
had  that,  too,  for  a  little  while.  It  still  rendered 
him  a  bit  jumpy. 

"What  they  make  you  go  through !  We  simply 
can't  visualize  it,  sitting  here  safe  at  home." 

They  were  alone  in  the  lounge  now;  the  other 
people  had  obeyed  the  warning  of  the  gong.  But 
their  tete-a-tete,  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
new  arrival. 


176  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

4 

It  was  a  young  man  dressed  in  a  blue  serge 
suit;  he  came  sauntering  through  the  front  door 
and  looked  round  the  lounge. 

"Oh,  blow!"  said  Captain  Shelley,  under  his 
breath. 

"Hullo.  There  you  are/'  said  the  young  man. 
"I've  been  hunting  for  you  all  over  Brighton.  I 
want  to  settle  up,  you  know."  Then  he  saw  that 
his  friend  was  in  the  company  of  a  lady.  "Beg 
pardon.  Can  I  have  a  few  words?" 

Mrs.  Burt  half  rose  from  her  cane  armchair, 
but  Captain  Shelley  smilingly  put  his  hand  on  her 
arm  and  detained  her. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said.  "It's  no  secrets.  Jack 
and  I  have  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of."  And  he 
made  a  formal  introduction.  "The  Honorable 
Mr.  John  Pierpont — Mrs.  Burt.  ...  .  :.  Now, 
Jack,  what's  your  hurry?" 

Mrs.  Burt  resumed  her  scrutiny  of  The  Glass 
of  Fashion;  but  she  heard  all  that  they  said,  and 
die  was  enormously  interested.  It  appeared  that 
the  two  friends  had  been  at  a  card  party  on  the 
previous  evening,  and  Mr.  Pierpont,  having  lost, 
was  now  come  to  pay  his  debt.  Captain  Shelley, 
for  his  part,  did  not  wish  to  be  paid  so  promptly, 
saying  it  could  stand  over  for  revenge,  and  the 
money,  if  he  took  it,  would  only  burn  a  hole  in  his 


A  WIDOW  177 

pocket.  At  this,  however,  the  younger  man 
seemed  to  get  slightly  nettled;  for  he  said,  "You 
seem  to  forget  it  is  a  debt  of  honor."  On  which 
Captain  Shelley  said,  with  curtness,  "Very  well. 
Have  it  your  own  way."  Then,  when  the  amount 
was  mentioned,  Mrs.  Burt  nearly  jumped  out  of 
her  cane  chair;  and,  as  it  were  automatically,  she 
came  back  into  the  conversation. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  two  gentlemen 
play  cards  for  such  high  stakes  that  the  sum  of 
six  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  passes  in  a  single 
evening?" 

They  both  laughed. 

"Does  that  shock  you?" 

"Indeed  it  does.  You  remarked  just  now  that 
you  had  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  But  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of  your- 
selves." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Pierpont,  laughing. 
"He  knows  it's  only  lent.  I'll  have  it  all  back, 
and  more,  before  I've  done  with  him."  He  had 
handed  Captain  Shelley  a  packet  of  big  notes,  and 
he  told  the  captain  to  count  them. 

"I'll  take  'em  for  granted,  Jack." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jack,  with  dignity,  "I  prefer 
you  to  count  them." 

"What  a  stickler  for  etiquette  you  are."  Captain 


178  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Shelley  verified  the  correctness  of  the  notes  by 
twirling  their  corners,  and  put  the  packet  in  the 
breast  pocket  of  his  tunic.  "Well,  that's  all, 
Jack." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Jack.  "You  have  had  youi? 
money.  I'll  trouble  you  for  my  LO.U." 

"By  Jove,  yes."  The  captain  laughed.  "I 
forgot.  No  one  will  ever  make  a  business  man  of 
me."  And  he  brought  a  bulging  letter  case  from 
the  skirt  pocket  of  his  tunic,  extracted  a  small  bit 
of  paper,  and  handed  it  to  his  friend. 

"Kighto,"  said  Jack.  "Good  evening,  madam;" 
and  he  bowed  and  withdrew. 

In  the  next  few  minutes  Mrs.  Burt  talked  very 
seriously  to  her  new  acquaintance.  "You  may 
think  it  strange  that  I  should  take  the  liberty  of 
offering  advice  to  a  stranger;  but  this  war  has 
turned  the  world  so  topsy-turvy  that  one  does 
things  now  that  one  wouldn't  have  dreamed  of 
doing." 

"Fire  ahead." 

And  she  said  how  wrong  it  was  for  gentlemen 
to  gamble  at  games  of  hazard — especially  officers 
— in  war-time.  "Believe  me,  it  isn't  right."  She 
said  this  very  charmingly,  smiling,  and  yet  in  an 
earnest  tone.  "And,  if  I  may  say  it,  I  don't  like 
your  friend,  the  Honorable  Mr.  Pierpont." 


A  WIDOW  179 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  Jack?" 

"I've  no  quarrel  with  his  manners — which  are 
just  what  one  would  expect  in  a  person  of  his 
birth — but  I  don't  think  he's  a  good  friend  for 
you." 

"Don't  you?"  Captain  Shelley  got  up,  stretched 
himself,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her.  "Perhaps 
you're  right.  I  want  a  friend.  Well,  any  more 
advice?" 

"Now  you  are  offended.  You  think  I  have  taken 
a  liberty?" 

"Don't  you  know  that  a  pretty  woman  can't 
take  a  liberty?" 

"Oh,  please " 

"I  shall  think  you  have  lost  interest  in  me  if 
you  don't  go  on." 

"Then  I  will."  And  Mrs.  Burt  spoke  to  him 
about  his  winnings  at  cards.  "Being  alone  in  the 
world,  I  am  forced  to  be  worldly-wise.  Put  that 
money  in  the  bank.  You  said  yourself  it  would 
burn  a  hole  in  your  pocket." 

"And  so  it  will." 

"That's  not  right  in  war-time — or  any  other 
time.  Take  my  advice.  Get  a  large  registered 
envelope,  put  those  notes  inside,  and  send  it  to 
your  bank  for  the  credit  of  your  account.  It'll 


180  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

be  safe  there,  and  it  won't  be  leading  you  into 
temptation." 

"How  you  lecture  one." 

"No,  I  don't.  I  simply  ask  you  to  do  something 
wise  and  proper  for  your  own  good.  Brighton's 
not  the  place  to  go  carrying  about  valuable  bank- 
notes in  your  pocket." 

With  an  impulsive  gesture,  he  pulled  out  the 
bundle  of  notes,  and  offered  them  to  her. 

"You  take  charge  of  them  for  me.  Then  you'll 
know  I'm  out  of  temptation,  and  I  shall  know  they 
are  safe." 

"No,  that's  out  of  the  question — quite  impos- 
sible." And  Mrs.  Burt  smiled.  "How  do  you  know 
they'd  be  safe  with  me?"  she  added  archly.  "I 
might  run  away  with  them.  You  are  taking  my 
financial  position  very  much  on  credit." 

"Bosh!  I  trust  you  all  right.  Keep  them  for 
me." 

"No.  But  do  what  I  have  said.  Promise  me 
that  you'll  send  them  straight  to  the  bank." 

He  put  the  notes  back  in  his  pocket,  and  stood 
looking  at  her  with  bold  searching  eyes. 

"Is  that  just  business  advice?"  he  said,  in  a  low 
Voice.  "Or  do  you  ask  it  as  a  favor?" 

Mrs.  Burt  had"  to  look  another  way.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  be  burning  her.  She  was  so  troubled 


A  WIDOW  181 

that  she  stammered ;  and  the  words  that  she  said 
fell  strangely  on  her  ear,  as  if  they  were  different 
words  from  those  that  she  expected,  or  as  if  he 
was  making  her  say  just  what  he  pleased.  "If — 
if  you  insist — then  promise — as  a  favor  to  me." 

"I  promise.    Now  I  must  be  off." 

"What?  Aren't  you  staying  here,  in  this  estab- 
lishment?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"I  was  passing,  and  I  saw  you  come  out  on  the 
steps — and,  well,  I  suppose  you  bowled  me  over. 
By-by." 

He  was  gone,  and  he  had  left  her  breathless. 

Throughout  the  table  d'hote  dinner  she  was 
silent  and  dreamy.  She  could  only  think  of  him. 
It  is  curious  how  you  may  know  people  a  long  time 
and  yet  really  know  very  little  about  them;  and 
how,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  occasions  when 
chance  brings  about  a  complete  disclosure  of  a 
person's  character  and  circumstances  in  a  very 
brief  space.  During  that  one  conversation  she 
seemed  to  have  learned  everything  about  Captain 
Shelley.  He  belonged  to  a  good  family,  had 
aristocratic  friends,  was  rich  but  extravagant.  He 
was  in  the  A.S.C.  Regiment.  By  temperament  bold 
to  a  fault,  reckless,  generous  in  an  offhand  style, 


182  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

With  regard  to  women  he  was  desperately  cool  in 
his  manners,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  faced, 
probably  very  dangerous. 

She  was  touched,  in  retrospect,  by  what  he  had 
said  to  his  friend  about  there  being  no  hurry  to 
collect  that  awful  card  debt;  and  she  was  very 
much  touched  indeed  by  his  anxiety  to  confide  the 
money  to  her  care.  What  an  idea!  Above  all, 
she  was  deeply  stirred  by  that  final  reckless 
speech.  Bowled  over!  What  an  expression! 

He  turned  up  again  about  nine  o'clock.  She 
was  seated  with  other  ladies  in  chairs  outside  the 
front  door,  watching  the  pier  lamps ;  and  her  heart 
leapt  in  her  ample  bosom  when  he  spoke  to  her. 

"Come  for  a  stroll  on  the  pier.  .,  .  .  Never 
mind  about  a  hat.  Throw  that  lace  thing  over 
your  head.  That's  what  the  Spanish  dames  do" — 
and  as  they  walked  off  side  by  side,  he  whispered 
to  her:  "My  word,  you  do  look  fetching  by 
night." 

"Please.     I  really  beg." 

There  was  a  crowd  on  the  pier,  and  it  all  seemed 
like  fairyland.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  gallant, 
dashing  companion  excited  feminine  curiosity  in 
every  direction.  The  band  program  was  over 
too  soon.  When  they  played  God  Save  the  King 
he  stood  to  attention,  saluting  all  the  time,  and 


A  WIDOW  183 

she  thought  he  was  the  handsomest  warrior  that 
had  ever  worn  the  king's  uniform.  She  came  off 
the  pier,  among  the  surging  crowd,  with  her  hand 
on  his  muscular  arm,  scarcely  knowing  where  she 
was,  content  to  be  guided  and  controlled  by  him. 
Beyond  the  turnstiles  he  changed  direction  left, 
took  her  down  the  flight  of  steps  to  that  asphalt 
path  which  is  used  by  the  children  on  donkeys  in 
day-time,  past  the  funny  little  arches,  by  the 
boats,  over  the  shingle,  anywhere  away  from  the 
crowd ;  and  somewhere  in  a  vague  wild  whirlwind, 
as  it  seemed,  he  made  bold  and  terrific  love  to  her. 
When  he  kissed  her  she  nearly  tumbled  back- 
ward; but  he  recovered  her,  and  did  it  again. 
Her  "Oh,  pleases,"  were  like  the  bleats  of  a  sheep 
caught  by  a  raging  lion;  at  the  gentlest,  his 
endearments  were  more  like  prize-fighting  than 
ordinary  love-making;  and  even  in  the  midst  of 
it,  while  struggling  to  keep  her  balance,  she  men- 
tally recalled  the  timid  caresses  of  Mr.  Burt  and 
the  almost  brotherly  embrace  of  Mr.  Hopkins.  It 
was  all  over  extraordinarily  quickly — really  only 
a  kiss  or  two  and  a  torrent  of  impassioned  words 
— but  while  it  lasted  it  was  stupendous. 

After  this  the  affair  went  at  lightning  speed. 
It  seemed  incredible  that  until  thirty-six  hours 


184  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  'THE  SAME 

ago  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  him,  and  yet  they 
were  practically  engaged  to  be  married.  It  was 
madness;  but,  as  they  both  confessed,  they  had 
fallen  crazily  in  love  with  each  other. 

He  called  her  "Little  Woman";  and  that  she 
certainly  was  not,  whatever  she  might  be.  She 
called  him  "Boy,"  and  told  him  why  she  had  so 
named  him.  "Because  you  are  nothing  but  a 
great,  big,  overgrown  boy,  and  I  tell  myself  that's 
your  excuse  when  you  go  on  in  a  way  that  would 
otherwise  make  me  angry." 

Jenner,  the  maid,  shook  her  head,  and  said, 
"Well,  this  is  a  case,  with  a  vengeance." 

"Oh,  Jenner,"  said  her  mistress;  "he  has  sim- 
ply swept  me  off  my  feet.  I  am  carried  away  by 
it." 

"So  I  understand,"  said  Jenner  dryly. 

"But  am  I  wise  to  do  it?"  In  these  confidences 
Mrs.  Burt  was  nervous  and  trembling,  even  tear- 
ful. "Jenner,  he's  so  strong,  so  masterful.  He 
may  be  an  awful  tyrant  later  on." 

"You'll  find  that  a  bit  of  a  change,"  said  Jenner 
very  dryly. 

"It  would  break  his  heart  if  I  tried  to  back  out. 
His  violence  frightens  me,  even  as  it  is.  I 
shouldn't  dare.  No,  I  could  only  escape  by  flight. 
Sometimes  I've  half  a  mind  to  run  away  from 


A  WIDOW  185 

him,"  and  Mrs.  Burt  began  to  cry.  "Am  I  silly? 
I  should  die  if  he  took  to  bullying  me.  I  am  older 
than  he  is — a  little.  Oh,  Jenner  I" 

"Have  a  whisky  and  soda,"  said  Jenner. 

"You  can't  counsel  me,  how  can  you?  But, 
Jenner,  tell  me  frankly;  you've  nothing  in  your 
mind  against  him  ?  Thanks." 

"What  should  I  have  against  him !  I'll  say  this 
much  in  his  favor.  He  seems  to  be  pretty  fluent 
with  his  money.  He  gave  me  a  sovereign  this 
morning." 

"Did  he?    Not  to  bribe  you?" 

"/  don't  know." 

"What  did  he  say  exactly?" 

"Oh,  he  spoke  laughing  like.  Says  I  was  to 
take  care  of  you,  and  perhaps  I'd  have  somebody 
to  help  me  take  care  of  you  before  long,"  and  then 
slaps  his  leg  with  his  stick. 

"Yes,  he  does  that,"  said  Mrs.  Burt  ecstatically. 
"I  know  just  what  you  mean.    It's  a  little  trick 
of  his.     I  have  seen  him  do  it  often 
You  have  made  this  rather  stiff." 

Thirty-six  hours,  forty-eight  hours,  seventy- 
two  hours — such  a  lot  was  happening  that  it 
might  have  been  a  year.  They  went  about 
together  in  the  afternoons — to  Shoreham,  to 
Rottingdean — and  in  the  evening  they  went  on 


186  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

the  pier.  He  had  tried  to  make  her  his  banker 
in  one  sense,  and  now  he  made  her  his  banker  in 
another,  borrowing  a  fiver  from  her  to  pay  for 
these  little  excursions  and  treats.  He  had  kept 
the  promise  about  sending  the  money  to  his  bank, 
and  had  told  them  to  send  him  a  fresh  check  book, 
as  he  had  exhausted  his  old  one.  For  the  moment 
he  had  to  draw  on  her. 

He  gave  her  his  photograph,  but  reluctantly. 

"Little  Woman,  I  haven't  one  that  does  me 
justice." 

"Then  come  and  let's  both  be  photographed." 

"Oh,  no.  Your  photograph  is  printed  here," 
and  he  touched  his  tunic  in  front.  "And  as  you 
are  going  to  have  my  old  mug  opposite  to  you  for 
the  rest  of  your  days,  you  can't  want  a  picture 
of  me." 

"But  I  do,  Boy.  Little  Woman  wants  it  dread- 
fully. For  her  to  take  out  and  look  at  when  Boy 
isn't  with  her." 

So  then  he  produced  a  photograph  from  his 
bulgy  pocketbook.  It  was  only  carte-de-visite 
size,  just  the  head;  but  a  good  likeness,  with  eyes 
staring  as  in  life,  and  the  saber  cut  showing 
plainly.  He  said  she  was  to  keep  it  to  herself 
and  not  let  anybody  see  it.  "It's  for  you,  Little 
Woman,  and  no  one  else." 


A  WIDOW  187 

The  things  he  said  sometimes  were  like  the 
speeches  that  make  you  quiver  when  you  read 
them  in  books,  and  thrill  when  you  hear  them 
spoken  on  the  stage.  He  said  he  would  make  her 
his  plaything  one  minute  and  his  queen  the  next. 
'I'll  tame  your  proud  beauty,  and  then  I'll  set  it 
on  a  pedestal  and  worship  it  on  my  knees."  He 
said  she  dressed  "too  old,"  and  that  after  their 
marriage  he  would  have  her  dress  as  quite  a  young 
girl,  in  the  brightest  colors,  "like  a  bird  of  para- 
dise." He  admired  her  jewelry,  but  objected  to 
the  antiquated  setting.  He  said  he  would  have  all 
the  diamonds  and  other  gems  taken  out  of  the 
gold  and  reset  as  a  butterfly  or  tiara,  buying  more 
diamonds  to  make  up  the  quantity  required.  To 
this  he  would  add  three  ropes  of  pearls,  left  to 
him  by  an  old  aunt,  of  the  name  of  Lady  Eliza- 
beth. And  then  with  these  ornaments,  in  a  ball 
dress  from  Paris,  his  little  woman  would  "fairly 
knock  them." 

But,  like  lightning  from  a  summer  sky,  came 
a  violent  outburst,  and  he  would  really  frighten 
her  for  a  moment  or  two.  At  a  word  he  could 
set  himself  on  fire  with  jealousy. 

"Understand,  you  have  fascinated  me,  and  you 
must  bear  all  the  consequences.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  ever  met  a  real  man  before — and  you've 


188  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

conquered  him,  but,  mark  you,  my  lady,  he  means 
to  conquer  you  too.  By  heaven,  if  you  ever 
looked  at  anybody  else,  if  you  ever  tried  to  play 
me  false " 

"Oh,  Boy!" 

"Do  you  know  what  I'd  do  with  you?  First, 
I'd  give  you  a  dashed  good  hiding,"  and  he  slapped 
his  leg  ferociously. 

"Boy!    You — you  couldn't  be  so  cruel." 

"Yes,  I  could.  Then  next,  I'd  wring  the  neck 
of  the  man  who'd  come  between  us.  There.  I 
can't  pretend.  If  you  don't  like  it,  say  so.  That's 
the  sort  of  man  I  am.  Take  me  or  leave  me." 

She  decided  irrevocably  to  take  him.  His 
violence  alarmed,  but  his  charms  allured.  Never 
had  she  tasted  such  emotion  as  his  rapid  changes 
of  tone  evoked.  She  thought  of  the  insipidity  of 
Mr.  Burt  and  Mr.  Hopkins.  After  a  tiff  Mr.  Burt 
used  to  say,  "I  hope  I  didn't  wound  your  feelings 
yesterday ;"  and  Mr.  Hopkins  would  knock  at  her 
door,  and  say,  "May  I  come  in,  dear?" — in  his 
own  house,  and  to  his  own  wife.  How  could  she 
doubt  or  hesitate?  It  was  a  brilliant,  a  dazzlingly 
brilliant  match.  An  officer,  a  swell,  a  hero !  "Yes, 
my  aunt  by  marriage,  Lady  Elizabeth.  Yes,  these 
pearls  are  family  jewels.  Boy  hung  them  round 
my  neck  the  morning  we  were  made  one." 


A  WIDOW  189 

Monday — that  was  the  day  he  came  Into  the 
lounge.  Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday.  This 
Thursday  afternoon  and  evening  were  dreamlike, 
tempestuous,  fantastic.  As  she  said,  she  was 
whirled  away.  He  would  wait  no  longer.  To- 
morrow morning  he  was  rushing  off  to  London  to 
get  a  special  license;  and  on  Saturday,  without  a 
word  to  anybody,  they  would  be  united.  To-mor- 
row he  would  do  an  immense  amount  of  business 
in  London.  He  was  taking  up  all  her  jewelry  to 
put  it  into  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Tiffany,  for  them 
tc  prepare  an  estimate  of  the  resetting.  He  would 
get  out  the  pearls  from  the  safe  at  his  chambers 
in  the  Albany;  he  would  buy  the  wedding  ring; 
arid  he  wanted  to  pay  off  a  few  bachelor  bills. 
For  this  purpose  he  made  her  change  checks  with 
him.  That  is,  he  gave  her  a  check  out  of  his 
new  check  book  for  six  hundred  and  fifty  pounds, 
and  she  gave  him  one  of  her  checks  for  a  like 
amount.  This,  he  explained,  would  save  him  a 
lot  of  time  and  trouble.  On  his  way  from  London 
Bridge  he  would  cash  her  check  at  the  Chancery 
Lane  Bank,  and  hand  in  his.  It  would  be  a  double- 
entry  transaction,  and  provide  him  with  the  cash 
in  the  quickest  possible  way.  She  scarcely  under- 
stood or  tried  to  understand.  She  did  whatever 
he  told  her  to  do. 


190  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

All  these  matters  were  settled  on  Thursday 
evening,  which  they  spent  in  the  reading-room  of 
the  boarding-house  instead  of  on  the  pier.  She 
was  painfully  fluttered,  and  she  thought  chiefly  of 
her  guilty  secret.  She  had  done  something  that 
he  might  not  approve  of,  and  she  trembled  at  the 
Idea  of  his  possible  anger.  He  had  told  her  not 
to  show  his  photograph,  and  he  spoke  now  of  their 
being  married  without  a  word  to  anybody. 

But  she  had  sent  his  photograph  and  her  own 
photograph  to  the  editor  of  The  Glass  of  Fashion, 
with  compliments  and  a  suggestion  that  they 
should  be  inserted  as  pictures  of  a  newly-engaged 
couple.  She  could  not  resist  doing  it.  She  had 
waited  so  long;  she  had  seen  so  many  such 
pictures:  "Viscountess  Saltash,  who  will  wed 
Major  Loftus  Jones  on  the  18th";  "War  widow 
weds  brother  officer  of  first  husband,"  and  so  on. 
Now  it  was  her  turn,  and  she  could  not  refrain 
from  taking  it. 

Would  Boy  be  angry?  No,  he  must  forgive 
Little  Woman  for  a  tiny  touch  of  pardonable 
vanity.  She  might  truly  plead  that  she  was  so 
proud  of  him  she  could  not  agree  to  conceal  him. 

"You  look  thoughtful.  Anything  on  your 
mind?"  He  had  risen;  and,  with  the  parcel  in 
his  hand,  was  about  to  tear  himself  away. 


A  WIDOW  191 

"No,  dear." 

"All  right.  I'll  be  back  by  the  six  o'clock  train. 
You  meet  me  at  the  station.  Ta,  ta,  Little 
Woman/' 

Friday  seemed  endless,  even  before  six  o'clock. 
She  was  at  once  sustained  and  agitated  by  the 
day's  issue  of  The  Glass  of  Fashion.  They  were 
in — side  by  side.  "Mrs.  Burt  and  Captain  Shelley 
to  be  wed  shortly."  The  captain  was  better 
printed  than  the  lady.  He  came  out  splendidly, 
staring  eyes,  saber  cut,  all  complete ;  so  that  you 
could  recognize  him  right  across  the  room,  with 
the  open  newspaper  propped  up  on  top  of  the  chest 
of  drawers. 

She    received    congratulations    from    all    the 

« 

boarding-house  guests.  In  peace-time  they  would 
have  been  wildly  excited.  Even  now  they 
displayed  considerable  interest. 

He  did  not  return  by  the  six  o'clock  train ;  nor 
by  the  six-forty;  nor  the  seven-fifteen.  The 
waiting  at  the  station  was  terrible  to  her.  By 
half  past  eight  she  was  almost  demented.  She 
thought  of  all  the  ghastly  accidents  that  might 
have  happened  to  him — run  over  by  an  omnibus, 
crushed  by  a  falling  house,  killed  in  the  shaft  of 
a  lift.  After  the  arrival  of  the  eight-forty  she 


192  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

became  a  little  calmer.  The  station  officials 
suggested  that  perhaps  a  brother  officer  might 
have  brought  him  back  in  a  motor-car;  or  he 
might  be  flying  back  in  an  aeroplane;  or,  more 
likely  still,  he  might  have  sent  a  telegram  saying 
why  he  was  delayed.  They  advised  her  to  go 
home  and  see  if  there  was  a  telegram  or  telephone 
message  waiting  for  her  there.  She  jumped  into 
a  taxi-cab,  and  went,  trembling  and  gasping,  to 
Regency  Square. 

The  lounge  was  in  a  state  of  agitation.  There 
were  police  officers  in  it — ordinary  police  and  mili- 
tary police. 

"Oh,  great  heavens,  what  is  it  ?" 

They  had  come  for  Boy.  They,  too,  were 
anxiously  waiting  for  Boy. 

They  led  her  into  the  manager's  little  room,  and 
closed  the  door  on  a  bevy  of  inquisitive  guests. 
And  the  chief  policeman  laid  out  on  the  table  a 
copy  of  the  day's  Glass  of  Fashion,  and  showed 
her  Boy's  picture. 

"Yes,  that  is  he,  of  course." 

Then  the  policeman  laid  out  another  Glass  of 
Fashion,  of  a  date  three  months  ago,  and  showed 
her  just  the  same  picture  of  him.  But,  oh,  the 
wording  under  this  earlier  picture ! 

"DO  YOU  KNOW  THIS  MAN?/'— in  capitals; 


A  WIDOW  193 

and  in  smaller  type,  "If  so,  help  the  police  to  trace 
him.  He  is  a  professional  bigamist  and  also  a 
deserter  from  the  Army.  Has  victimized  many 
foolish  women  during  the  course  of  the  war." 
And  they  gave  his  description.  "Injury  to  nose 
from  the  kick  of  a  horse,"  and  so  on. 

Mrs.  Burt  stared  despairingly  at  the  newspaper. 
She  saw  everything  clearly  now;  she  understood 
everything.  He  was  the  logical  product  of  these 
dreadful  times;  he  was  the  forerunner  of  that 
authorized  Mormonism,  about  which  she  had 
vaguely  speculated;  he  was  the  masterful  man 
with  several  wives.  She  did  not  give  a  thought 
to  her  lost  jewelry  or  her  emptied  banking 
account.  She  was  so  pitiably  in  love  with  him 
still  that  she  asked  herself:  Would  not  a  fifth  or 
sixth  share  of  Boy  have  been  better  than  this 
total  blank,  this  unmitigated  misery? 


THE  SHORT  CUT 

FUNNY  things  happened  to  one  in  the  war- 
coincidences,  lucky  chances,  totally  inexpli- 
cable events.  One  used  to  wonder  about  them  and 
then  forget  them.  So  much  was  happening  that 
nothing  could  hold  its  place  in  one's  mind  for 
long. 

To  young  Mr.  Brown,  the  regimental  transport 
officer  of  a  battalion  newly  arrived  in  France, 
there  was  such  a  delightful  freshness  and  glamour 
about  the  war  that  he  must  be  pardoned  if  he 
childishly  wished  that  it  would  not  be  over  quite 
so  soon  as  the  experts  predicted.  On  these 
pleasant  October  afternoons  when  he  first  rode  up 
to  the  trenches  at  the  head  of  his  limbered  wagons, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  hoping  that  the  war 
would  last  over  Christmas  and  till  the  early  spring 
of  1916. 

Like  thousands  of  other  young  officers  of  the 
new  armies,  he  felt  so  very  proud  of  being  in  it  at 
last.  He  was  proud  of  belonging  to  a  splendid 
battalion,  proud  of  the  cap-badge  that  signified 
a  gloriously  famous  regiment;  proud  of  his  well- 

194 


THE  SHORT  CUT  '  195 

groomed  horses,  his  keen,  resolute  drivers,  his 
nicely  turned  out  brakesmen,  his  glittering 
harness  buckles  and  shining  trace  chains.  The 
battalion  had  been  given  a  really  nice  bit  of  the 
line  just  in  front  of  the  ruined  village  of  La 
Prunelle;  the  communication  trenches  ran  down 
into  the  ruins  of  the  village  street;  and,  by  what 
was  a  tremendous  piece  of  luck  for  a  transport 
officer,  the  lie  of  the  ground  enabled  you  to  come 
up  in  daylight  almost  as  safely  as  under  the  cover 
of  night. 

A  good  high  road  took  you  across  the  three 
miles  of  waste  ground  that  intervened  between 
La  Prunelle  and  the  last  of  the  inhabited  villages ; 
and  shells,  aimed  at  nothing  in  particular,  came 
sailing  over  the  slight  ridge  that  hid  the  enemy's 
position,  and  burst  here  and  there  with  innocent 
noisiness.  Then  you  came  to  leafless  trees,  cross- 
roads, sand-bagged  barriers,  and  a  blue  metal 
signboard  that  told  you  it  was  straight  on  to 
Maison  Rouge  Farm,  half  right  to  Martincourt, 
half  left  to  Bretel-des-Pres,  and  short  to  the  left 
into  La  Prunelle.  But  at  present  you  could  not 
go  in  any  direction  except  sharp  to  the  left, 
because  all  the  other  places  mentioned  on  the 
signboard  were  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans. 
Going  the  correct  way,  then,  Lieutenant  Brown 


196  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME    ' 

led  his  little  procession  of  wagons  through  the 
ruins.  There  had  been  much  fighting  here  in 
1914,  the  village  being  lost  and  retaken  several 
times,  and  the  damage  caused  by  repeated  bom- 
bardments was  heavy.  Not  a  roof  remained  in 
position;  more  than  half  the  houses  were  just 
heaps  of  bricks  and  stone,  and  the  rest  were 
merely  torn  carcases;  the  church  tower  was  still 
standing;  and  there  were  some  good  cellars  unin- 
jured. Some  of  the  cellars  were  used  as  billets 
for  the  company  in  support;  a  few  of  the  lower 
stories  of  buildings  had  been  fitted  up  as  cook- 
houses; and  there  were  plenty  of  respectable 
dug-outs  that  had  been  made  by  the  French 
before  they  handed  over  the  estate  to  their  allies. 
The  church  tower  was  a  mark  long  since  carefully 
registered  by  the  German  artillery,  so  that  shells 
often  burst  in  its  vicinity,  and  a  little  way  beyond 
it  the  street  could  be  swept  by  machine-gun  fire 
dropping  into  it  from  no  one  knew  where.  When 
this  occurred,  as  it  had  more  than  once  already, 
every  sign  of  life  instantly  vanished  from  the 
street,  and  the  regimental  transport  found  itself 
all  alone  in  its  glory.  You  can  not  put  horses  and 
wagons  down  into  dug-outs,  or  send  them  for 
shelter  along  communication  trenches ;  the  barri- 
cades and  impediments  of  the  street  prevented 


THE  SHORT  CUT  197 

your  hurrying  on  at  a  trot  or  gallop;  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  continue  your  slow  progress  in 
a  dignified  manner. 

Lieutenant  Brown  looked  Napoleonically  dig- 
nified as  he  rode  through  the  barricades,  with  the 
bullets  pattering  on  all  that  was  left  of  garden 
walls  and  villa  front  doors.  He  and  his  men  liked 
it,  in  these  early  days.  It  was  business,  what  they 
had  come  out  for;  and  they  wished  that,  without 
risk,  those  at  home  could  be  here  to  see  them  doing 
it.  The  crump  of  an  incoming  shell  is  pleasanter 
by  daylight  than  in  the  dark,  and  machine-gun 
fire  is  quite  inspiriting  until  its  novelty  has  worn 
off. 

Arrived  at  their  destination  the  rations  wagons 
were  off-loaded  by  the  company  quartermaster- 
sergeants  ;  somebody  else  took  charge  of  the  fuel 
wagon;  any  wagons  with  ammunition  or  trench 
stores  were  handed  over  to  the  regimental  ser- 
geant-major, and  for  a  little  while  Mr.  Brown 
was  free  of  them.  It  was  his  duty  now  to  go  down 
into  the  orderly  room  dug-out,  report  there,  and 
obtain  any  further  orders.  His  next  job  might 
be  to  go  to  brigade  headquarters  at  Graviercourt 
to  fetch  more  ammunition,  bombs,  fireworks,  what 
not;  or  perhaps  there  were  hurdles  and  heavy 
.material  to  be  brought  from  the  R.  E.  dump;  or 


198  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

the  battalion  suddenly  remembered  that  it  wanted 
something  else.  Whatever  might  be  wanted,  it 
was  his  duty  to  fetch  and  carry  it;  but  if  nothing 
at  all  was  wanted  he  could  go  quietly  home  to 
St.  Fernand,  the  village  where  he  lived  with  his 
horses,  and  he  and  everybody  else  could  be  safely 
snoring  by  nine-fifteen  P.  M.  Of  course  they 
might  be  turned  out  again  by  nine-sixteen,  or  at 
any  time  during  the  night;  because  the  whole 
brigade  area  was  beautifully  linked  up  with  wires, 
and  telegrams  were  punctually  delivered  at  all 
hours. 

„  To-day  there  was  a  red  hat  in  the  orderly  room 
dug-out,  and  Mr.  Brown  modestly  waited  until 
the  wearer  of  the  hat  had  done  talking  to  his 
adjutant.  It  was  the  principal  staff  officer  of  the 
brigade,  what  is  called  the  brigade-major,  and  in 
this  case  a  splendid  fellow. 

"Well,  Brown,"  said  the  adjutant  presently. 
"Nothing  for  you  to-day,  I  think." 

"Hello,     Brown,"     said     the     brigade-major 
jovially.    "How  are  your  old  skins  ?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

"Let's  have  a  look  at  'em ;"  and  he  led  the  way 
up  the  dug-out  steps. 

Up  in  the  street  he  looked  at  a  wagon  and 
horses,  and  told  Mr.  Brown  that  if  they  were  all 


THE  SHORT  CUT  199 

as  good  as  that  they  did  him  credit.  And  Mr. 
Brown  blushed  with  pleasure.  The  kindness  and 
affability  of  the  staff  almost  overwhelmed  him. 

"By  the  way,  Brown,  when  you  come  from  here 
to  the  brigade  for  stores,  what's  your  road?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  have  to  go  right  back  to  St.  Fernand 
and  then  up  the  other  road  to  Graviercourt." 

"No,  you  don't  have  to,"  said  the  brigade-major 
rather  severely.  "You  may  do  it  for  your  own 
amusement,  but  there's  a  short  cut  straight  across. 
And  that's  the  proper  way  to  come,  if  you  want 
to  save  useless  work  for  your  horses  and  men — as 
you  ought  to  be  wanting  all  the  time." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 

The  seriousness  and  decisive  tone  of  the  staff 
quite  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  should  reconnoiter,  you  know." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  meant  to ;  but  we  haven't  been  here 
very  long." 

"I  know.  But  there  are  such  things  as  maps. 
You  should  study  your  maps;"  and  the  brigade- 
major  brought  a  mud-stained  map  out  of  his 
pocket.  "See  here." 

"I  did  know  of  the  track,  sir.  It's  plainly 
marked.  But  I  thought  it  was  under  observa- 
tion." 

"No,  it's  all  right,  and  it  saves  you  six  miles 


200  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

each  way.  Here  we  are.  La  Prunelle ;"  and  with 
his  thumb  he  measured  the  distance  to  Gravier- 
court.  "A  mile  and  a  half,  as  the  crow  flies." 
Then  he  refolded  the  map  and  pointed  up  the 
street.  "Turn  short  before  the  Gendarmerie,  go 
down  through  the  orchards,  past  the  R.E.  You'll 
come  to  some  graves  on  your  left  hand,  and  then 
it's  straight  on  to  the  windmill.  Here's  the 
general.  Come  along  with  us,  and  I'll  show 
you." 

Next  moment  Lieutenant  Brown  was  absolutely 
walking  up  the  street  with  the  general — right  by 
the  signals  office,  B  Company's  headquarters  and 
cook-house,  by  the  medical  aid  post,  by  everything, 
with  the  whole  world  watching  him.  It  made  him 
hot  and  breathless — going  off  like  this  for  a  walk 
with  the  general  and  the  brigade-major.  Officers 
saluted,  men  stood  to  attention. 

"I  have  told  him  he  can  bring  his  wagons  by 
our  short  cut,"  said  the  brigade-major. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  general.  "I  wonder  you 
hadn't  tumbled  to  that  already,  Brown." 

"I  thought  it  wasn't  safe,  sir." 

"Well,  you  needn't  come  if  the  sun's  shining. 
But  this  time  of  the  clock — or  on  misty  days — and 
at  night,  of  course." 

Every  one  in  the  brigade  adored  the  general. 


THE  SHORT  CUT  201 

It  was  not  only  that  he  was  a  clinking  fine  soldier, 
he  was  such  a  tip-topper  all  round.  He  was  tall 
and  big,  with  a  pleasant  laugh,  and  a  jolly,  chaffing 
manner;  yet  he  could  make  you  tremble  in  your 
boots  if  things  weren't  just  so.  He  wore  the 
ribbons  of  many  medals,  and  these,  together  with 
the  red  band  on  his  cap  and  the  gold  and  red  tabs 
on  his  tunic,  made  him  look  very  magnificent. 
Those  useful  but  disfiguring  steel  hats  had  not 
yet  been  issued  to  troops. 

"How  old  are  you,  Brown?"  he  asked,  as  they 
turned  out  of  the  street  and  dived  down  a  narrow 
lane  through  the  apple  orchards. 

"Twenty-three,  sir." 

"Do  you  like  the  war?" 

"I  love  it,  sir." 

"Do  you  ?"  The  general  laughed,  and  he  went 
on  in  his  jolly,  chaffing  way: 

"Got  any  sisters,  Brown  ?" 

"Two,  sir." 

"I  should  think,"  said  the  general,  speaking  to 
the  brigade-major,  "that  Brown's  sisters  must  be 
very  nice-looking.  It  runs  in  families  like  that 
sometimes.  But  perhaps  not  so  clever  as  you, 
Brown,  eh?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say,  sir,"  and  Mr.  Brown 
tittered  shyly. 


202  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Well,  you  give  your  sisters  my  compliments, 
when  you  write,  and  say  I  said  you're  doing  very 
well  out  here,  and  they'll  be  proud  of  you  before 
you're  done." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Got  a  sweetheart,  Brown?" 

"Oh,  really,  sir!"  Mr.  Brown  tittered  again, 
and  blushed.  He  was  delighted  with,  but  almost 
prostrated  by,  the  general's  chaff. 

"That  would  be  telling,  eh?"  And  the  general 
laughed  once  more.  "And  still  keep  something 
to  yourself  you  will  not  tell  to  any." 

They  were  now  out  on  the  open  ground,  a  vast 
undulating  plain  that  looked  indescribably  deso- 
late in  the  fading  daylight.  On  each  side  of  the 
track  there  were  disused  trenches,  all  weed-grown 
and  tumbling  in;  rusty  wire  entanglements 
stretched  away  on  both  sides,  with  hummocks  of 
earth  and  deep  holes  that  had  been  dug  as  breast- 
works and  gun  pits ;  and  about  two  hundred  yards 
to  the  right,  running  parallel  to  the  track,  there 
was  a  roadway  built  up  high  on  an  embankment, 
with  rows  of  torn  and  shredded  trees  and  disman- 
tled telegraph  posts.  When  the  track  rose  a  little 
one  could  see  across  this  roadway  and  make  out 
the  position  of  our  front  line  trenches,  which 
showed  as  yellowish  stripes  on  the  dull  brown 


THE  SHORT  CUT  203 

surface  of  sloping  ground.  The  German  trenches 
were  just  over  the  crest  of  the  low  ridge,  and 
really  one  wanted  the  word  of  a  general  or  his 
principal  staff  officer  to  make  one  believe  that  the 
Germans  could  be  so  close  without  being  able  to 
spot  one. 

As  they  walked  on,  the  general  spoke  quite 
seriously  of  the  fighting  that  had  taken  place  here 
last  year.  He  said  that  Mr.  Brown  ought  to  feel 
he  was  on  hallowed  ground,  because  his  own 
regiment  had  been  engaged  in  the  final  struggles 
before  the  line  settled  down. 

"The  Royal  Fusiliers,  sir?" 

"Yes,  your  second  battalion."  And  the  general 
was  good  enough  to  say  that,  as  always,  the 
regiment  had  distinguished  itself.  But  it  had 
lost  heavily.  One  whole  company  was  cut  to 
pieces. 

"You'll  see  some  of  the  graves  farther  on,"  said 
the  brigade-major.  "But  now  look  here,  Brown, 
my  boy,  you  needn't  come  as  far  as  that.  You  can 
see  exactly  where  you  are;"  and  he  showed 
Lieutenant  Brown  his  bearings,  so  that  he  could 
not  possibly  make  a  mistake.  The  track  bore 
away  to  the  left,  leaving  the  roadway  more  and 
more  to  the  right.  That  excrescence  about  a  mile 
ahead  was  all  that  remained  of  the  windmill. 


204  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

You  passed  it  close  on  your  left.  Those  trees 
were  the  outskirts  of  Graviercourt ;  and  the  track 
became  a  road  again  there  and  took  you  through 
orchards,  as  it  had  done  at  La  Prunelle,  right  into 
the  village. 

"And  you  may  see  something  among  those 
trees,"  said  the  general,  "that  you  needn't  men- 
tion to  anybody.  They  are  putting  in  some 
howitzers,  but  their  voices  won't  be  heard  for  a 
long  while.  Remember,  Brown,  gun  positions  are 
like  sweethearts — to  be  kept  quiet  to  one's  self." 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir,"  and  Lieutenant 
Brown  saluted. 

"Good  night,  old  chap,"  said  the  general,  just 
exactly  as  if  he  had  been  another  subaltern. 

The  general  with  the  brigade-major  went  on, 
and  Mr.  Brown  went  back  toward  La  Prunelle 
and  his  wagons.  When  he  looked  round  over  his 
shoulder  the  red  hats  had  disappeared,  swallowed 
already  in  the  grayness  and  vagueness  of  the 
waste.  He  stepped  out  briskly,  with  a  sudden 
feeling  that  he  was  more  utterly  alone  than  he  had 
ever  been  in  all  his  life.  He  thought  of  the  order 
forbidding  officers  to  move  about  unaccompanied. 
Although  the  Germans  could  not  see  one,  they 
could  shoot  one.  All  bullets  aimed  at  our  front 
line  and  passing  over  it  came  drifting  down  this 


THE  SHORT  CUT  205 

way.  He  had  heard  some  of  them  just  now 
whistling  above  his  head.  If  one  were  hit,  one 
would  bleed  to  death  before  anybody  came  along 
the  track  to  find  one.  Or  one  might  lie  half 
through  the  night  and  get  stifled  in  the  mud,  or 
be  run  over  by  an  artillery  limber  while  still 
unconscious.  He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid,  but 
never  till  now  had  he  experienced  the  sensation 
of  helplessness  that  can  be  created  in  a  moment 
by  unusual  solitude. 

And  never  till  now  had  he  seen  how  sinister  an 
aspect  the  jolly  old  war  could  unexpectedly 
assume.  The  light  was  nearly  gone,  everything 
was  gray  and  shapeless,  and  yet  one  could  see  a 
long  way  in  all  directions.  But  nowhere  did  one 
see  a  sign  of  life;  everywhere  one  saw  signs  of 
death  and  destruction.  This  tangled  wire,  the 
ugly  cavernous  trenches,  the  mounds  and  holes, 
all  meant  blood  and  wounds  and  dying  groans. 
Not  a  movement,  not  even  the  sound  of  a  voice — 
the  place  was  so  completely  dead  that  one  ceased 
to  remember  all  the  live  men  hidden  in  the  ground, 
only  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  friends  and  foes 
eagerly  watching  and  waiting  to  do  some  more 
killing;  the  desultory  rifle  fire,  the  machine-gun 
fire,  the  occasional  artillery  fire  seemed  no  longer 
to  be  an  evidence  of  human  agency;  one  had  a 


206  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

superstitious  fancy  that  one  was  dead  one's  self, 
and  that  the  dead  men  who  had  fought  last  year 
would  emerge  from  among  the  weeds  and  the  wire 
to  greet  one  as  a  new  companion. 

It  was  quite  a  relief  to  come  upon  some  sappers 
outside  their  dug-outs  near  the  orchards;  and 
the  cook-houses  and  the  men  and  the  wagons  made 
the  devastated  village  of  La  Prunelle  seem  as  jolly 
and  gay  as  Bond  Street  in  the  season. 

Mr.  Brown  rode  back  with  the  empty  wagons 
to  his  own  village  of  St.  Fernand  feeling  as  merry 
and  light-hearted  as  possible.  This  wonderful 
short  cut  to  brigade  headquarters  crowned  his 
felicity.  He  counted  the  immense  gains  of  it. 
Instead  of  going  three  miles  to  St.  Fernand  and 
four  miles  on  to  Graviercourt,  one  mile  and  a 
half  straight  across;  three  miles  for  the  return 
journey,  instead  of  fourteen;  no  change  of  horses 
now  required — hours  saved,  labor  saved,  every- 
thing saved. 

He  had  occasion  to  avail  himself  of  the  short 
cut  no  later  than  the  next  day.  When  he  arrived 
with  the  rations  he  found  that  a  job  was  waiting 
for  him. 

"Hullo,  Brown,"  said  the  adjutant,  coming  up 
from  the  signals  dug-out  with  a  telegram  in  his 


THE  SHORT  CUT  207 

hand;  "eighty  thousand  rounds  of  small  arms 
ammunition  for  you  to  draw  from  brigade." 

Mr.  Brown  considered  the  case  with  Napoleonic 
thoroughness  and  decision.  He  had  seven  wagons 
here.  He  would  send  two  wagons  home  in  charge 
of  his  sergeant  and  use  five  wagons  for  the  ammu- 
nition. That  would  mean  sixteen  boxes  to  each 
wagon,  a  nice  light  load;  it  was  advisable  to  go 
light,  because  the  muddy  parts  of  the  track  would 
be  a  stiff  pull  for  the  horses.  He  gave  his  orders 
accordingly,  and  as  soon  as  the  five  wagons  were 
empty  he  set  forth. 

Dusk  was  falling,  and  it  seemed  already  almost 
dark  as  the  small  convoy  passed  between  the  trees 
in  the  lane  by  the  ruins  of  the  old  Gendarmerie; 
but  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  open  it  was  com- 
paratively light  again,  the  whole  plain  visible  yet 
colorless,  all  ghost-like  and  gray.  Mr.  Brown  rode 
on,  watching  the  roadway  on  his  right.  One 
seemed  to  be  so  big  on  horseback  that  it  was  more 
than  ever  difficult  to  remember  that  the  enemy 
could  not  see  one.  Now  and  then  he  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  all  was  right 
behind  him.  The  wagon  wheels  and  horses'  hoofs 
made  no  sound  on  the  soft  ground.  He  had 
allowed  the  brakesmen  to  ride  in  the  rear  portions 


208  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

of  the  limbers,  and,  looking  back,  he  counted  them 
— five  drivers,  five  brakesmen ;  all  correct. 

Glancing  back  like  this,  when  they  had  reached 
a  point  farther  than  the  limit  of  his  reconnoitering 
walk  of  yesterday,  he  was  surprised  by  seeing  the 
foremost  driver  turn  his  head  and  make  a  solemn 
salute  with  his  whip. 

"What  are  you  doing  that  for?" 

"Only  those  graves,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  point- 
ing with  his  whip. 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Brown.  "Yes,  by 
Jove — our  own  regiment."  And  in  a  loud  voice 
he  gave  the  order,  "Ride  at  attention ;"  and  then 
"Eyes — left!"  himself  solemnly  saluting,  as  he 
rode  past  the  two  poor  lonely  graves. 

They  were  side  by  side,  twenty  yards  to  the 
left  of  the  track,  grown  over  by  the  rank  weeds, 
but  with  the  two  wooden  crosses  intact;  and, 
looking  straight  at  them,  each  driver  and  brakes- 
man solemnly  saluted  as  he  passed  by. 

"Eyes — front;"  said  Mr.  Brown,  and  they  all 
went  noiselessly  on  their  way. 

He  had  gone  a  little  farther  when  two  soldiers 
stepped  into  the  track  ahead  of  him  and  signaled 
to  him  to  stop.  He  halted  the  wagons  and  rode 
forward,  expecting  to  find  that  the  men  were 
gunners  and  that  they  had  something  to  do  with 


THE  SHORT  CUT  209 

the  new  howitzer  installation;  but  they  were 
infantrymen,  and  he  guessed  even  before  they 
spoke  to  him  that  they  were  orderlies  from  the 
brigade  office. 

"We  are  to  tell  you  to  turn  back,  sir/' 

"Why?" 

"Not  safe,  sir." 

"But  my  orders,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  rather 
petulantly,  "are  that  it  is  safe.  The  brigade  told 
me  to  come  this  way." 

"Not  safe  to-day,  sir.    We  are  to  stop  you." 

"Oh,  curse!"  said  Mr.  Brown,  turning  to  his 
horse ;  and  he  bellowed  the  order  for  the  wagons 
to  reverse. 

They  all  came  round,  and  he  trotted  to  the  head 
of  his  convoy,  and  they  began  to  plod  back 
toward  La  Prunelle.  Then,  like  a  young  officer, 
he  doubted;  thinking  that  perhaps  he  had  been 
wrong  to  take  such  a  direction  without  further 
inquiry.  Those  chaps  were  sent  from  the  brigade, 
but  he  ought  to  have  made  sure  of  it — he  ought 
to  have  made  sure  that  the  message  was  really 
for  him,  and  not  for  somebody  else.  He  halted 
his  wagons  and  looked  round;  but  the  men  had 
disappeared.  They  had  no  doubt  gone  along  the 
track  toward  the  brigade,  and  he  thought  he 
would  ride  after  them  and  question  them  further. 


210  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Then  he  changed  his  mind  again,  gave  the  order, 
"Walk — march!"  and  rode  moodily,  feeling  much 
aggrieved. 

Two  extra  miles  added  to  fourteen  make  sixteen 
miles.  "Oh,  curse !" 

Three  minutes  later  the  enemy's  guns  opened, 
and  he  and  his  drivers  heard  for  the  first  time  the 
noise  of  a  brisk  bombardment.  It  seemed  to  them 
quite  terrific;  and,  although  the  shell-bursts  were 
a  mile  away,  they  seemed  to  be  close  behind  them. 
They  were  sending  over  high  explosives,  real  big 
stuff.  Already  it  was  so  dark  that  one  saw  the 
gun  flashes  lighting  up  the  sky  over  there;  then 
you  heard  the  bang  of  the  guns,  and  at  the  same 
time,  as  it  seemed,  there  came  the  appalling  crump 
of  the  exploded  shell  over  here.  Crump  and  crump 
again.  Crash  after  crash — they  must  be  hitting 
the  track,  they  must  be  knocking  Graviercourt  to 
smithereens.  Mr.  Brown  wondered  if  he  would 
see  flames  behind  him  when  he  reached  higher 
ground;  he  wondered  if  this  was  what  is  termed 
"drum  fire";  he  wondered  if  the  enemy  was 
searching  for  those  howitzers  in  the  Graviercourt 
orchards;  he  wondered  if  the  search  would  pres- 
ently shift  this  way.  Both  he  and  his  drivers 
were  using  their  legs  conscientiously,  and  all  the 
horses  were  walking  up  to  their  bits. 


THE  SHORT  CUT  211 

The  noise  continued  until  they  had  gone 
through  La  Prunelle  and  were  on  the  high  road 
back  to  St.  Fernand,  and  then  all  fell  silent.  It 
became  as  dark  as  pitch ;  one  could  hardly  see  the 
toad  after  they  had  changed  horses  and  were  out 
again  on  their  way  to  Graviercourt.  The  journey 
seemed  interminable,  but  Mr.  Brown  did  not  mind 
the  length  or  the  fatigue  of  it;  he  remembered 
that  proverb  about  the  longest  way  round  being 
sometimes  the  shortest  cut ;  and  he  thought  with 
a  glow  of  kindly  feeling  what  luck  it  is  to  have  a 
topping  brigade  staff.  They  were  always  taking 
care  of  one ;  they  never  forgot  one.  But  for  their 
warning,  he  and  his  whole  bag  of  tricks  would 
have  been  caught. 

After  the  darkness  of  the  roads  the  candle-light 
in  the  brigade  office  dazzled  one  and  made  one 
blink.  The  office,  although  it  was  only  a  superior 
sort  of  outhouse  at  a  farm,  seemed  very  snug  and 
comfortable,  with  its  chairs  and  tables,  the  long 
counter  for  maps,  the  two  red-hatted  officers  and 
the  other  plain-hatted  officers,  busy  at  work,  but 
smoking  their  pipes. 

Lieutenant  Brown  went  to  the  staff  captain's 
table  and  reported  himself. 


212  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"I'm  to  draw  eighty  thousand  rounds  S.A.A.," 
and  he  put  down  his  copy  of  the  telegram. 

"Hullo,  Brown,"  said  the  brigade-major,  looking 
up  from  his  work  and  speaking  cheerily.  "Then 
here  you  are,  all  right!  I  was  getting  quite 
nervous  about  you.  Do  you  happen  to  know  that 
those  dogs  put  down  a  barrage  on  our  track  this 
afternoon?" 

"Yes,  sir;  but  I  got  your  message." 

"What  message?" 

"Not  to  come  that  way." 

"Who  said  that?" 

"Your  two  orderlies,  sir." 

"What  orderlies?" 

The  brigade-major  got  up  smiling,  went  and 
stood  warming  himself  at  the  stove,  and  asked 
more  questions. 

"Which  of  our  orderlies?" 

"I  can't  say,  sir.  I  didn't  know  them.  They 
were  both  of  them  Fusiliers." 

"Fusiliers !     Two  of  your  own  fellows  ?" 

"No,  sir,  they  didn't  belong  to  our  battalion, 
because  they  were  wearing  the  old  equipment." 

"How  did  you  know  they  were  Fusiliers  ?" 

"I  saw  their  cap  badges." 

"Then  they  must  have  been  your  own  lot.  We 
have  no  Fusiliers  here.  Yours  are  the  only 


THE  SHORT  CUT  213 

Fusiliers  in  the  brigade.  Did  they  say  they  came 
from  here  ?" 

"No,  sir — but  I  took  it  for  granted,  when  they 
gave  the  message." 

"You  say  the  message  was  to  stop  you  coming 
across  ?" 

"Yes,  sir — to-day.  They  said  it  wasn't  safe 
to-day." 

The  brigade-major  laughed  heartily ;  everybody 
in  the  office  was  looking  at  Mr.  Brown  and  smiling. 

"Look  here,  Brown,  you  must  come  into  the 
mess  and  have  a  whisky  and  soda.  I  think  you 
have  taken  a  nap  in  your  saddle  and  been  dream- 
ing. .  .  .  You  young  fellows  are  really 
wonderful.  Don't  you  see?  How  the  devil  could 
the  brigade  send  such  a  message?  No  one  but 
the  Germans  were  in  a  position  to  send  such  a 
message.  We  didn't  know  that  the  blighters  were 
going  to  shell  the  place." 

Lieutenant  Brown  said  no  more.  He  recalled 
the  general's  quotation:  "And  still  keep  some- 
thing to  yourself  you  will  not  tell  to  any." 

His  mind  had  suddenly  been  invaded  by  a 
strange  thought.  He  thought  of  two  unknown 
comrades,  awakening  from  their  sleep  and  rising 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice  as  he  passed  by.  He 
believed  that  it  was  the  two  dead  men  in  those 


214  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

graves  who  had  come  out  to  warn  them — because 
they  had  saluted,  because  they  belonged  to  the 
regiment,  because  they  were  newcomers  whose 
lives  must  not  be  thrown  away  uselessly,  but  saved 
for  the  great  cause. 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED 

ALTHOUGH  it  seemed  to  go  so  slowly  out 
JrY.  there,  the  war  became  more  and  more  of 
a  rush  for  people  over  here  in  England.  You 
could  see  it  in  their  faces.  They  were  trying  to 
do  too  much.  Many  of  them  were  getting  rattled 
— especially  some  of  the  girls. 

Her  aunt  used  to  plead  with  Edie  to  slacken 
the  pace. 

"How  can  IT9  said  Edie,  shrugging  her  pretty 
shoulders.  "It'll  be  time  enough  to  rest  when 
peace  is  declared." 

"You'll  be  dead  before  then,  if  you  aren't  care- 
ful ;"  and  Mrs.  Parkes  languidly  buttoned  her 
gloves,  yawned,  and  looked  at  the  set  of  her  hat 
in  the  glass.  "Take  the  evening  off,  anyhow." 

"Impossible.  There's  the  meeting  at  the 
Broughtons'.  They  can't  get  on  without  me." 

"Well,  I  hope  next  week  will  be  quieter." 

"No,  it'll  be  worse  than  ever.  Flag  days  every 
day  except  Saturday — and  Saturday's  the 
Masque." 

Mrs.  Parkes  sighed,  "Oh,  well,  I  know  I'm  worn 
jpiut  for  one.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  even  be  up  to  a 

215 


216  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

game  of  bridge  after  dinner — yet  nothing  rests 
me  more  than  that/' 

And  Mrs.  Parkes  went  off  to  her  club.  She 
and  her  favorite  niece,  Edie,  ran  a  joint  house- 
hold in  a  small  flat  close  to  Earl's  Court  Station. 
When  you  are  actively  engaged  on  war  work  of 
a  multiform  character  your  strategical  position 
is  of  great  importance;  you  must  be  somewhere 
from  which  you  can  strike  in  any  direction  where 
effort  may  be  required.  Earl's  Court  was  an  ideal 
jumping-off  place.  Edie  could  throw  herself  into 
a  District  train  and  bob  up  at  Westminster,  all 
among  the  Government  offices,  House  of  Commons, 
and  so  on;  she  could  snatch  her  basket  of  flags, 
dive  deeper  for  the  Tube,  and  in  less  than  no  time 
be  outside  the  Ritz  Hotel,  saying,  "No,  I  really 
can't  let  you  off.  You  must  have  one ;"  there  was 
nothing  that  she  could  not  do  from  Earl's  Court. 

She  could  even  go  to  East  Putney,  to  keep  in 
touch  with  Mrs.  Grange,  Jack's  mother.  And  she 
thought  now,  with  a  sigh  that  was  like  a  graceful 
little  echo  of  auntie's  plaintive  gasping,  how 
remiss  she  might  seem  in  not  having  gone  of  late. 
Somehow  or  other  she  must  make  time  to  do  it. 
It  was  wrong  to  neglect  her  future  mother-in- 
law. 

She  ran  a  slender  hand  across  her  fair  hair, 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  217 

puckered  her  white  forehead  with  a  frown,  and 
allowed  her  large  blue  eyes  to  take  the  soft  wistful 
vagueness  of  expression  that  is  caused  by  momen- 
tary regret.  Then  she  shook  herself,  making  her 
bangles  tinkle,  and  in  a  fussy,  agitated  manner 
sat  down  at  the  imitation  Sheraton  writing-desk. 
But  before  attacking  work  she  looked  again  at  a 
letter  from  her  sweetheart.  It  was  addressed  to 
his  mother,  not  to  her;  and  Mrs.  Grange  had 
kindly  sent  it  on  this  morning  for  her  perusal, 
with  the  marginal  note:  "Can  you  understand 
Jack's  hint?" 

"Do  not  be  surprised,"  wrote  Jack  to  his  mother, 
"if  I  give  you  a  little  surprise.  I  will  say  no  more 
now,  because  there  is  many  a  slip  between  the  cup 
and  the  lip/' 

Edie  had  guessed  what  he  meant,  and  she 
hoped  that  her  guess  would  prove  correct.  The 
military  cross!  They  were  going  to  give  him 
the  cross.  Bless  his  brave  heart — she  knew  how 
well  he  deserved  it. 

The  clock  outside  in  the  hall  struck  six,  and  Edie 
started  guiltily,  as  though  feeling  that  she  had 
wasted  one  or  two  precious  moments.  This  July 
day  had  been  hot  and  airless,  and  now  it  was  the 
sort  of  evening  on  which  even  the  scrawling  of  a 
note  seems  an  immense  labor.  She  stared 


218  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

despairingly  at  her  desk,  which  was  in  an  inde- 
scribable state  of  confusion,  and  with  nervous 
fingers  rummaged  among  the  mass  of  documents 
— tradesmen's  bills,  ball  programs,  leaflets  of 
wholesome  propaganda,  what  not.  Here  was  the 
agenda  paper  of  the  Broughtons'  meeting.  That, 
at  least,  must  be  firmly  tackled.  When  you  are 
going  to  a  meeting,  your  position  is  so  much 
stronger  if  you  know  what  the  meeting  is  about. 
But  a  strange  reluctance  prevented  her  for 
a  little  from  studying  the  dull  sheet,  and  she  sat 
musing  about  her  lover  and  herself.  Judging 
merely  by  her  outward  aspect  as  she  sat  thus, 
if  one  had  not  known,  one  might  easily  have 
mistaken  her  for  a  rather  feather-headed  young 
lady  who  was  fonder  of  fuss  and  chatter  than 
real  work;  but  inwardly  all  her  thoughts  were 
grand  and  fine.  She  thought  of  how  the  war 
had  not  only  turned  the  world  upside  down,  but 
had  changed  people's  characters,  drawing  forth 
from  their  depths  unexpected  powers,  undreamed 
of  qualities.  Her  own  case — as  an  example. 
Looking  back  at  herself  as  she  was  before  the  war, 
she  could  not  recognize  that  old  self.  She  had 
been  frivolous,  fond  of  pleasure,  shallow — or,  at 
any  rate,  without  high  aims  and  the  ability  to 
concentrate  her  attention  on  them.  [Then, 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  219 

profoundly  stirred,  she  had  thrown  herself  into 
the  war,  had  given  herself  to  the  great  cause. 
She  had  wanted  to  do  anything,  however  humble, 
for  the  cause;  and  she  had  found  that  there  was 
scarcely  anything  that  she  could  not  do.  She  did 
research  work  in  books  of  reference  like  Who's 
Who,  making  out  lists  of  people  to  whom  circulars 
should  be  sent;  she  addressed  envelopes  by  the 
thousand ;  she  visited  the  dear  Tommies*  canteens 
at  the  railway  stations;  she  belonged  to  leagues; 
she  rode  remounts  sometimes  in  Hyde  Park;  she 
sat  on  committees.  Everybody  turned  to  her  for 
advice  and  support.  "Miss  Parkes  is  so  helpful" 
— it  had  almost  become  a  proverb.  No  charity 
matinee  was  complete  without  her.  She  did  not 
act,  or  sing,  or  dance;  but  she  sold  programs, 
was  helpful,  took  an  interest.  If  any  one  had  told 
her  before  the  tragic  test  began  that  she  had  these 
latent  powers  in  her,  she  simply  would  not  have 
believed  it.  But  truly  we  have  all  been  put 
through  the  furnace,  the  fires  have  searched  us, 
the  bad  metal  is  fast  falling  away  from  the  good. 
Her  eyes  grew  moist  as  this  fine  thought  came 
to  her — the  thought  about  the  vast  war-furnace. 
She  brushed  away  what  might  have  been  tears, 
had  they  been  allowed  to  mature;  and  she  thought 
gf  her  great  love  for  Jack,  Perhaps  that  had  been 


220  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

largely  instrumental  in  steadying  her,  lifting  her, 
sustaining  her  on  the  higher  plane.  And  she 
thought  of  how  completely  the  terrific  facts  of 
the  war  had  killed  the  shams  and  pretenses  of 
modern  life.  Snobbishness,  for  instance.  Thank 
heavens,  that  has  been  blown  from  our  midst  for 
ever. 

She  thought  of  Jack's  military  cross.  How 
proud  she  would  feel,  going  about  with  him  when 
he  was  wearing  the  blue  and  white  ribbon.  Dur- 
ing his  last  leave  she  herself  had  felt  the  want  of 
it.  At  restaurants,  when  other  girls  came  in  with 
young  men  whose  tunics  sported  this  decoration, 
she  had  felt  that  poor  old  Jack  looked  only  half 
dressed ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  other  girls 
gave  themselves  airs  and  carried  their  heads 
defiantly  because  of  the  deficiency  in  Jack's 
costume.  She  thought  there  was  nothing  on 
earth  that  she  would  like  so  much  as  for  Jack  to 
get  the  military  cross — except,  of  course,  the  red 
tabs  and  red  hat  of  a  staff  officer.  How  that  little 
bit  of  red  lights  up  a  uniform,  what  a  style  it 
gives  to  all  who  carry  it — to  all  who  go  to  restau- 
rants with  it!  Such  a  little  thing,  and  yet  it 
conveys  so  much;  recognized  social  position, 
influence,  membership  of  the  ruling  class. 

The  electric  bell  rang  noisily,  the  maid  went  to 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  221 


the  outer  door  of  the  flat ;  and  Miss  Parkes  sprang 
from  her  chair  and  leaped  into  the  tiny  hall, 
Incredible  as  it  seemed,  she  had  heard  the  soun<J 
of  the  loved  voice. 

"Jack!" 

"Edie!" 

They  came  back  into  the  drawing-room  embrac- 
ing each  other ;  and  the  maid  shut  the  door  behind 
them,  smiling  sympathetically. 

"Let  me  look  at  you." 

"Yes,  but  let  me  look  at  you." 

And  for  a  moment  they  unlinked  themselves, 
and  then  began  again.  He  was  splendid  in  his 
war-stained  uniform,  at  once  such  a  boy  and  such 
a  man;  so  sunburnt,  strong,  alive  and  alert,  so 
everything  he  ought  to  be.  She  had  glanced 
instinctively  at  the  space  above  the  left  breast 
pocket  of  his  tunic.  It  was  not  there ;  so  she  said 
nothing  about  it  for  the  moment. 

"How  long  have  you  got?" 

"Only  eight  days.     Worse  luck." 

She  turned  to  the  big  calendar  by  the  telephone 
on  the  writing-table. 

"That  means  you  go  back  on  the  Sunday  ?" 

"Yes,  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

"When  did  you  arrive?" 

"Now,  this  minute.     I  have  come  straight  here. 


222  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Edie,  don't  say  you're  engaged.  You'll  give  me 
the  evening?" 

"My  dear  boy,  of  course  I  must.  It  means 
chucking  over  an  important  meeting  and  upsetting 
a  lot  of  friends.  But  everything  must  stand  aside 
for  the  man  from  the  trenches;"  and  she  went 
over  to  the  telephone,  and  called  for  the 
Broughtons'  number. 

"I  see  you  have  had  that  moved  in  here,"  he 
said,  fondly  following  her. 

"Yes,  I  get  busier  every  day.  It  meant  dancing 
out  into  the  hall  every  two  minutes.  Some  days 
I  do  half  my  work  on  the  telephone." 

When  she  had  given  her  apologetic  message  to 
the  Broughtons'  butler  she  decided  how  the 
evening  was  to  be  passed. 

"This  is  what  we'll  do,  Jack — dine  quietly  at  the 
Baveno " 

"But,  I  say,  could  I  go  out  to  dinner  like  this  ?" 

"Of  course.  You  can  go  about  just  how  you 
please — there  are  no  rules  for  heroes.  Besides, 
nobody  who  matters  ever  goes  to  the  Baveno. 
It's  absolutely  quiet  and  humdrum.  Then  after 
dinner  we'll  do  a  play.  Now,  while  I  get  my  hat, 
you  ring  up  a  theater  and  book  the  seats — dress 
circle." 

"Which  theater?"  said  Jack  doubtfully. 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  223 

Edie  thought  deeply.  "His  Majesty's.  Chu 
Chin  Chow." 

"What,  again?  We  have  been  to  that  every 
leave.  Isn't  there  anything  new?" 

"You  wouldn't  get  seats  for  the  new  things. 
Remember,  last  time,  you  liked  Chu  Chin  Chow 
better  than  you  used  to.  And  to  me  it's  always 
so  restful — it  takes  one's  mind  off.  And  they 
have  introduced  some  wonderful  oriental  cos- 
tumes." 

"Edie."  Jack  spoke  hesitatingly.  "I  haven't 
been  home  yet.  I  came  straight  here." 

"So  you  said.  Are  you  thinking  whether  your 
mother  will  be  huffy  if  I  take  possession  of  you 
for  your  first  evening?" 

"Well,  what  I  was  really  thinking — till  you 
mapped  it  out — was  that  I  rather  hoped  to  get  you 
— to  tempt  you — to  come  back  with  me  to  Putney 
and  dine  there." 

"My  dear  boy,  I  shouldn't  get  a  word  with  you. 
The  family  would  swamp  you." 

"No,  directly  after  dinner,  we  could  go  out  for 
a  stroll,  all  alone.  The  mater  would  know  we 
wanted  to  be  together." 

"Oh,  I  think — I  do  think  Mrs.  Grange  must 
spare  you  to  me  this  one  evening.  Jack,  when  we 
get  to  the  Baveno  I'll  show  you  my  list  of  en- 


224  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

gagements,  and  you'll  see  for  yourself  that  it's 
going  to  be  terribly  difficult  to  fit  things  in. 
Telephone  to  Putney  to  say  you  are  safe  and 
sound.  Where  did  you  leave  your  kit?" 

"Down-stairs,  with  the  hall  porter — all  I  have 
brought." 

"Very  well.  You'll  see  me  home  here,  pick  up 
your  things,  and  be  back  with  the  family  circle  by 
eleven  o'clock." 

It  was  glorious  to  be  riding  in  a  taxi-cab  with 
her,  holding  her  hand,  watching  her  pretty  face, 
and  subconsciously  drawing  delight  from  the 
brightness  and  gaiety  of  the  London  streets.  It 
was  rapture  to  be  seated  at  a  little  table  with  her 
at  the  restaurant,  listening  to  the  band,  hearing 
her  voice  mingle  with  it  and  make  the  music 
sweeter.  To  any  one  fresh  from  the  line  in  front 
of  Poperinghe,  it  really  was  heaven,  all  of  it. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  over  their  coffee  and  cigar- 
ettes, "what  was  the  meaning  of  the  cryptic 
phrase  in  your  letter  to  Mrs.  Grange,  about  a 
surprise  ?  What  was  to  be  the  little  surprise  ?" 

"Why,  this,  of  course.     My  getting  leave." 

"Oh,  I  see.     How  stupid  of  me." 

"I  knew  I  was  ripe  for  it — that  directly  leave 
opened  again  my  chance  would  come — but  I  didn't 
want  to  say  anything  definite.  It's  always  so 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  225 

uncertain  out  there.  However,  Jenkins — he's 
adjutant  now,  you  know — Jenkins  said  I  was  third 
on  the  list.  Then,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  called 
to  me  from  the  steps  of  his  dug-out.  Edie,  I  must 
tell  you  about  it,  because  it's  so  funny  how  things 
always  seem  to  happen  out  there.  I  was  thinking 
just  then  that " 

"Yes,  dear.  You  must  tell  me  about  it  at  the 
theater.  It's  such  bad  form  interrupting  and 
disturbing  people.  We  shall  be  late  if  we  don't 
get  off  at  once." 

After  this  it  was  Chu  Chin  Chow  for  hours  and 
hours;  then  great  luck  in  securing  a  taxi,  and 
more  rapture  of  holding  hands;  and  then  five 
minutes  of  highest  heaven  up-stairs  at  the  Earl's 
Court  flat.  Huggings,  vowings,  delirious  vapor- 
ings — till  Mrs.  Parkes  returned  from  her  club, 
and  broke  it  up. 


Eight  days  was  an  immense  time  out  there,  but 
it  went  very  fast  over  here.  And  now  on  his  last 
afternoon  he  had  the  feeling  that,  short  as  his 
leave  had  seemed  to  him,  it  had  seemed  too  long 
for  his  friends.  He  was  quite  at  a  loose  end,  with 
nothing  better  to  do  than  walk  about  the  streets 
alone.  People  were  all  working  so  hard  for  the 


226  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

war  that  they  had  no  leisure  to  spend  with  any  one 
who  was  taking  a  holiday  from  the  war. 

Fate  had  been  unkind  in  depriving  him  of  his 
sweetheart's  company  to-day  of  all  days. 

Edie  herself  had  been  mentally  perturbed  and 
emotionally  distressed  about  it.  She  had  intended 
for  a  little  while  to  sacrifice  herself,  to  give  up  her 
own  treat  and  have  what  would  have  been  a  treat 
for  him  instead;  she  had  considered  the  case, 
weighing  the  for  and  the  against,  and  in  the  end 
she  simply  could  not  do  it.  Thinking  of  it,  forcibly 
dragged  one  way  by  her  own  natural  inclination, 
feebly  pulled  the  other  way  by  her  genuine  tender- 
ness for  Jack,  she  recognized  plainly  that  the 
charity  matinee  was  in  truth  a  treat,  and  not  just 
war  duty. 

It  was  a  very  special  affair.  It  was  the 
hundredth  matinee  promoted  by  Edie's  favorite 
league.  The  main  part  of  it  was  called  The 
Masque  of  Many  Nations,  and  in  this  nearly  all 
the  pretty  women  of  London  would  figure.  A 
certain  percentage  of  the  very  prettiest  women 
had  been  wisely  reserved  for  the  front  of  the 
house,  as  program  sellers,  in  specially  designed 
costumes;  and  prominent  among  them  would  be 
Edie.  Over  and  above  the  Masque  there  was  to  be 
a  variety  entertainment.  A  famous  music-hall 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  227 

artist  was  going  to  sell  a  pig  at  auction;  royal 
princesses  were  to  be  present;  if  possible,  mem- 
bers of  the  war  cabinet  would  attend.  Twelve  of 
the  program  sellers,  including  Edie,  would  each 
be  entrusted  with  a  signed  photograph  of  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  to  dispose  of  to  the  best  advantage. 
This  created  a  pleasant  rivalry  among  the 
twelve.  At  the  dress  rehearsal  there  had  been 
great  fun  and  excitement,  and  a  tremendous 
discussion  concerning  the  special  costumes  of  the 
program  sellers.  Some  people  said  the  bodices 
had  been  cut  too  low  at  the  back,  for  daylight; 
others  said  that  you  couldn't  cut  bodices  too  low 
nowadays ;  and  the  organizing  committee  decided 
that  anyhow  it  was  too  late  to  attempt  modifica- 
tions. All  this  added  to  the  flutter  of  one's  nerves, 
kept  one  on  wires,  made  one  so  apprehensive  of  the 
slightest  failure  and  so  desperately  anxious  that 
in  the  smallest  detail  the  whole  thing  should  be  a 
triumphant  success.  It  had  been  so  largely 
advertised  and  loudly  talked  of;  the  world  was 
on  tiptoe,  expecting  it  to  go  off  with  a  bang.  No, 
Edie  simply  could  not  give  it  up ;  and  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  as  she  said  herself,  she  felt  bad  about 
deserting  Jack  on  his  last  afternoon.  However, 
they  had  seen  a  good  lot  of  each  other;  and  he 
ysrould  soon  be  here  again.  Leave  is  fairly  regular. 


228  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

He  was  very  nice  about  it,  when  she  explained 
everything.  This  was  when  he  called  at  the  flat 
on  Saturday  morning. 

"It  would  be  no  use  your  coming  to  the  show-^ 
merely  waste  of  money,  even  if  you  could  get  in ; 
for  I  shouldn't  have  a  word  with  you." 

Then  she  had  a  bright  idea,  which  seemed  a 
gleam  of  hope  for  Jack.  The  evening?  And  she 
made  a  further  explanation.  There  was  to  be  a 
dinner  after  the  matinee,  in  a  large,  specially 
retained  room  of  a  popular  restaurant — a  sort  of 
informal  feast  for  all  connected  with  the  charity, 
by  way  of  celebrating  the  success  of  the  league's 
hundredth  effort ;  and  after  dinner  there  might  be, 
probably,  well,  almost  certainly,  a  little  dancing. 

"Jack,  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  come  to 
that.  Yes,  do." 

Jack's  hope  faded  again.  He  must  spend  the 
evening  at  home ;  his  mother  had  made  a  point  of 
it;  she  had  hoped  that  he  would  bring  Edie  back 
with  him  for  dinner. 

"Then  this,"  he  said,  "means  that  it  is  good- 
by  now?  I  shan't  see  you  again ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Edie.  "What  time  do 
you  push  off  to-morrow  ?" 

"Oh,  very  early — far  too  early  for  you  to  come 
to  the  station." 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  229 

It  seemed  the  longest  afternoon  of  his  life.  He 
called  at  new  service  clubs  to  which  other  young 
officers  of  the  new  armies  belonged,  but  he  failed 
to  find  any  one  he  knew.  Throughout  the  after- 
noon he  did  not  meet  a  single  pal.  He  sat  for  a 
considerable  time  at  a  tea-shop  near  Piccadilly 
Circus,  and  tried  to  talk  to  the  tea-girl  who  waited 
on  him;  but  she  was  too  busy  for  conversation. 
He  walked  more  than  half  of  the  way  home  to 
Putney,  and  his  spirits  sank  as  he  plodded  along. 
Piccadilly  was  full  of  people,  Hyde  Park  was 
crowded,  too;  the  sun  shone;  everywhere  he  saw 
gaiety,  brightness,  light-heartedness.  It  was  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  there  were  no  holiday- 
makers  left.  And  he  thought  rather  morbidly  of 
all  the  busy  war  workers,  wondering  if  some  of 
them  got  their  recreation  and  amusement  out  of 
the  work  itself,  not  really  taking  the  war  seri- 
ously, but  rather  making  a  plaything  of  it — 
because  playthings  were  all  that  they  had  ever 
understood  or  desired. 

Such  morbid  fancies  vanished  on  the  morrow. 
His  spirits  rose  directly  he  got  back  to  France. 
He  was  all  right  out  there,  knowing  what  was 
what,  and  who  was  who. 

He  wrote  to  Edie  in  quite  simple  language,  but 
with  so  much  love  that  she  treasured  his  letter 


230  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

greatly;  not  tearing  it  up,  but  putting  it  in  the 
emptiest  drawer  of  her  writing-table.  He  told 
her  how  dreadful  that  last  afternoon  was  to  him; 
how  he  wandered  about  alone,  feeling  utterly 
wretched  because  she  was  not  with  him.  "Well, 
now,  my  darling  Edie,  this  is  not  grouping;  for 
you  were  quite  right  to  keep  your  engagement 
with  your  friends.  It  is  only  to  let  you  know  how 
dreadfully  fond  of  you  I  am.  When  I  am  with 
you  I  never  seem  able  to  tell  you.  You  are  so 
much  too  good  for  me.  I  know  that.  But  per- 
haps one  day  I  may  be  more  worthy  of  you." 

Not  long  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter  she  was 
reading  a  letter  from  his  colonel,  addressed  to 
Mrs.  Grange.  Jack's  fourteen-year-old  sister 
Daphne  brought  it  one  morning,  when  Edie  was 
still  in  bed. 

"I  am  to  wait  and  take  it  back,"  said  Daphne, 
"because  mother  wants  Aunt  Loo  to  see  it  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mother  fainted  when  she  got  the 
news.  Father  went  to  the  office  as  usual,  but  he 
will  try  to  come  back  early." 

Edie  sat  up  in  the  bed,  shivering  and  sobbing  as 
she  read  the  letter.  "He  had  endeared  himself 
to  all "  Commanding  officers  should  be  for- 
given if  they  repeated  themselves  |n  these  letters j 


WHAT  EDIE  REGRETTED  231 

they  had  so  many  of  them  to  write.  "By  his 
unfailing  cheerfulness  and  high  sense  of  duty  he 
never  failed  in  setting  a  good  example,  and  I  can 
assure  you  he  will  be  missed  by  all." 

"Don't  cry,  Edie,"  said  young  Daphne,  very 

bravely.  "One — one  oughtn't  to  re — regret " 

and  she,  poor  child,  began  to  sob  again  herself. 

What  Edie  regretted  was  that  last  afternoon  of 
his  leave.  She  regretted  that  she  had  not  spent 
it  with  him ;  she  regretted  her  refusal  to  dine  with 
him  at  Putney ;  she  regretted  that  she  did  not  go 
to  see  him  off.  All  this  Edie  regretted — ;yery  bit- 
terly at  first. 


THE  WRONG  DIRECTION 

/TMIE  battalion  had  been  back  in  the  line  for 
JL  thirty-six  hours,  and  things  had  happened  all 
the  time. 

An  hour  after  their  arrival  Private  Henderson 
had  gone  out  as  one  of  a  patrolling  party,  which 
caught  it  heavily  from  machine-gun  fire,  got  three 
killed  and  two  winged,  and  came  back  with  one  of 
these  missing.  Another  party  was  going  out  to 
look  for  him,  when  the  bombardment  opened. 
iVery  big  and  nasty  stuff  came  over,  rapidly 
causing  casualties.  And  off  and  on  the  enemy 
continued  to  plaster  them — fire  trench,  support 
trench,  communication  trenches.  The  dug-out 
used  for  company  headquarters  was  blown  in,  and 
Private  Henderson  with  others  was  turned  out  for 
necessary  digging  to  extricate  people  buried  alive. 
Some  hours  later  he  himself  got  buried  with  four 
men  crouching  in  a  slit  for  shelter.  He  was  the 
least  buried  of  this  little  lot  and  emerged  unin- 
jured, with  mouth,  ears,  eyes  full  of  earth,  but 
nothing  wrong  except  a  pain  in  the  chest.  Two  of 
his  pals  were  less  fortunate,  being  for  some  reason 
dead.  Then  the  gas  shells  began  to  burst,  and 

232 


THE   WRONG   DIRECTION  233 

there  were  more  casualties  among  the  clumsy  or 
the  slow.  Box  respirators  were  worn  without  a 
breather  for  four  hours,  and  when  the  order  came 
to  take  them  off  many  were  sick  and  fainted.  But 
the  enemy's  artillery  showed  no  real  signs  of 
weariness.  It  was  always  beginning  once  more 
when  you  thought  it  had  finished.  One  lost  all 
count  of  the  time,  night  and  day  seemed  just  the 
same.  It  was  morning  again,  and  a  most  awful 
crump  wrecked  the  trench  in  which  a  carrying 
party  was  bringing  up  breakfast  for  Henderson's 
platoon.  Six  men  were  killed,  and  the  platoon 
missed  its  hot  tea.  The  front  trench  danced  under 
the  explosions,  timbers  fell  out  of  the  sky,  no 
shelter  was  possible.  So  it  went  on — no  proper 
food,  no  sleep,  no  nothing  for  thirty-six  hours — 
simply  hell. 

You  had  only  to  look  at  the  company  to  see  what 
they  had  gone  through.  Private  Henderson  felt 
more  dead  than  alive.  The  only  mitigation  of 
their  misery  was  that  the  weather  held  fine.  They 
had  not  suffered  from  cold  or  wet;  and  the  kind 
May  sun  now  shining  on  their  haggard,  unshaven, 
dirty  faces  seemed  like  a  sympathetic  caress.  It 
was  half  past  ten  A.  M.,  and  a  dinner  of  bully  beef 
and  biscuits  was  served  out.  Water  might  be 
expected  shortly. 


234  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Lieutenant  Ashmore  spoke  to  Henderson  in  the 
support  trench,  and  at  first  Henderson  could  not 
understand.  He  was  still  so  dizzy  and  rattled. 

Disasters  never  come  singly.  It  appeared  that 
Lieutenant  Ashmore  had  broken  his  pince-nez 
and  mislaid  his  reserve  pair.  He  had  this  second 
pair  safe  and  sound  a  few  days  ago,  and  he  thought 
he  must  have  left  them  in  the  hut  down  at  St. 
Gregoire,  occupied  by  him  and  other  officers  till 
the  battalion  came  up.  He  was  saying  that  he 
wanted  Henderson  to  go  down  there  and  look  for 
them. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  see.  I'll  do  it,  sir,"  said  Hender- 
son. "You  trust  me,  sir." 

Also  Henderson  was  to  find  out  at  St.  Gregorie 
if  Captain  Berkeley  had  returned.  Captain 
Berkeley  was  due  from  leave  last  night. 

"All  right,  sir.    I'll  do  it,"  said  Henderson. 

And  Lieutenant  Ashmore  gave  him  the  most 
exact  description  of  the  particular  hut — the 
fourth  on  your  right  hand  as  you  came  into  the 
field  from  the  railway  line,  and  the  lieutenant's 
valise  had  lain  at  the  far  end  of  the  hut.  The 
glasses  were  in  a  black  leather  case.  The  case 
might  have  slipped  down  between  the  boards. 

"I'll  find  'em  if  they're  there,  sir.  But  didn't  I 
ought  to  have  a  pass,  sir? — or  the  p'lice  may  stop 


me." 


THE    WRONG   DIRECTION  235 

5 

Lieutenant  Ashmore  brought  out  his  pocket- 
book,  scrawled  a  few  words  in  pencil,  and  Private 
Henderson  noticed  his  hand  shaking.  Everybody 
was  a  bit  shaky  this  morning.  Nobody  seemed 
quite  to  know  what  he  was  doing. 

"There  you  are,"  and  he  tore  the  leaf  from  his 
pocketbook. 

"You  'aven't  put  the  date,  sir." 

"All  right.  What  is  the  date?  Damn,  I  don't 
know  what  day  it  is ;"  and  the  lieutenant  added  a 
hieroglyphic  that  might  mean  anything. 

Henderson  went  to  the  crumbling  lair  that  in 
happier  circumstances  should  have  served  him  as 
a  sleeping  bunk,  fished  out  his  pack  and  equipment, 
and  put  on  everything,  murmuring  to  himself  the 
while.  "Lose  me  kit  next.  Get  that  buried  too. 
Best  take  it,  'eavy  or  not."  Then  in  another 
minute  he  had  engaged  in  the  long  series  of  com- 
municating trenches  that  led  one  away  from  all 
this  danger  and  beastliness  toward  places  of 
comparative  safety.  No  one  had  questioned  him ; 
no  one  took  the  slightest  notice  of  him. 

He  was  a  pitiable  figure  really,  as  he  shambled 
and  stumbled  along  the  boards  of  the  deep  trench, 
round  the  incessant  traverses,  and  through  tunnels 
that  had  timbered  roofs;  with  his  pack  catching 
against  the  uprights  of  the  revetment  and  giving 


236  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

him  such  jolts  that  he  nearly  fell;  looking  small, 
weak,  tired,  overburdened,  altogether  outmatched 
by  the  tremendous  phenomena  of  this  abominable 
war.  His  face  was  still  covered  with  reddish 
brown  earth,  his  hair  was  full  of  earth,  his  clothes 
were  earth-stained.  Down  here,  with  sunlight, 
tufts  of  green  grass,  and  moving  air  three  or  four 
feet  above  his  head,  he  seemed  like  a  creature  of 
another  race,  an  earthman  painfully  emerging 
toward  the  surface  from  the  depth  below.  But 
in  truth  he  felt  quite  happy,  happier  every 
moment;  the  sense  of  fatigue  passed  from  him; 
the  pain  in  his  chest  had  gone.  He  was  getting 
an  unexpected  and  delightful  treat.  Just  to  come 
out  of  it  for  an  hour  or  two,  to  enjoy  a  brief 
respite  from  the  hateful  noise  and  the  senseless 
fury  of  it,  would  do  him,  was  doing  him,  all  the 
good  in  the  world.  He  dined  as  he  trudged  along, 
and  when  he  had  pushed  the  last  bite  of  tinned 
beef  into  his  mouth  and  cracked  his  last  bit  of 
biscuit  he  whistled. 

"Oh,  cuss  I" 

Something  else  had  whistled,  high  over  his 
head,  and  there  came  a  tremendous  crump  that 
seemed  straight  in  front  of  him,  perhaps  fifty 
yards  down  the  trench.  He  leaned  against  the 
side  of  the  trench,  trembling  violently!  w&  small 


THE   WRONG   DIRECTION  237 

fragments  of  earth  fell  tinkling  on  his  metal  hat. 
Then  there  came  three  more  bursts,  and  he 
dropped  upon  all  fours  on  the  duck  boards. 

"If  they're  going  to  shell  me  between  'ere  an' 
the  village,"  he  thought,  "that  puts  the  lid  on  it." 
Then  he  got  up,  pulled  himself  together.  "What 
I  bin  through  'as  awmost  unnerved  me;"  and  he 
went  on  a  little  way,  clambered  up  a  bay  in  the 
side  of  the  trench,  and  took  a  bold  survey. 

Some  of  the  ugly  smoke  was  still  visible,  but 
incredibly  farther  off  than  where  he  had  looked 
for  it;  otherwise  all  was  deliciously  peaceful  and 
innocent,  the  rank  grass  and  flowering  weeds  all 
bright  in  the  sunshine,  here  where  no  man's  foot 
trod,  and  right  ahead  the  white  ruins  and  the  tall 
blackened  trees  that  were  all  that  remained  of  the 
village. 

After  about  a  mile  he  came  out  of  the  trench 
upon  a  dusty  bit  of  road.  This  was  the  road  used 
by  the  regimental  transport  at  night  when  it 
brought  up  the  rations ;  parallel  to  it  there  ran  a 
deep  railway  cutting,  with  the  permanent  way  all 
dismantled,  even  the  sleepers  gone — the  telegraph 
poles  down,  and  the  iron  signal  posts*  uprooted  and 
trailing.  Thence  onward  down  the  road  one 
passed  through  the  customary  scene  of  destruc- 
tion. The  road  itself  meandered  among  shell- 


238  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

holes,  many  of  them  recent ;  everything  that  could 
be  broken  had  long  since  been  smashed  to 
smithereens;  not  a  leaf  had  unfolded  itself  this 
year  on  the  shattered  trees ;  and  the  village,  when 
he  came  to  it,  was  simply  a  rubbish  heap  of  bricks, 
stones  and  tiles.  But  through  it,  constructed  of 
its  waste  materials,  there  were  excellent  good 
roads,  along  which  lorries,  cars,  and  horse-drawn 
wagons  moved  fast  or  sedately;  some  fine  water 
troughs  with  an  in  and  out  track  had  been  erected; 
all  among  the  ruins  one  saw  shelters  and  huts, 
such  as  the  divisional  canteen,  town  major's  office, 
salvage  officer's  store,  and  so  on;  and  on  the  far 
side,  in  what  had  once  been  green  fields,  there 
were  the  permanent  wooden  huts,  camouflaged 
tents,  and  brown  canvas  bivouac  sheets  which 
showed  that  many  battalions  of  infantry  were 
reposing  themselves.  Still  farther  off  the  bare 
brown  valley  was  full  of  horse  lines  of  artillery, 
camps  of  A.S.C.,  dumps  of  Royal  Engineers ;  and 
from  the  distant  ridges  our  bigger  guns  roared 
cheerfully,  with  a  flash  that  was  just  perceptible 
now  and  then,  when  clouds  obscured  the  sun. 
Nothing  uglier,  more  unnatural  than  the  whole 
view  could  well  be  imagined;  and  yet  to  Private 
Henderson  it  was  refreshing  in  its  smiling  orderli- 
ness and  peaceful  organization.  By  contrast  with 


THE    WRONG   DIRECTION  239 

the  front  trenches  and  what  he  had  come  from,  it 
had  the  penetrating  charm  of  an  exquisite  piece 
of  pastoral  verse  and  it  stirred  him  to  his  depths. 

"Bit  o'  luck,  this  errand.  Feel  the  better  for  it 
a'ready." 

Near  the  water  troughs  he  was  pounced  upon  by 
a  corporal  of  the  military  police,  who  made  him 
show  his  pass. 

"Tass  Private  Henderson  on  duty/"  the 
corporal  read  out  aloud;  and  he  said  that  the 
name  of  unit,  regimental  number,  and  a  lot  more 
ought  to  have  been  written  down.  "It's  made  out 
very  irregular." 

"It  was  written  up  in  the  line,"  said  Henderson, 
with  an  aggrieved  tone. 

"Yes,  and  I  tell  you  the  whole  thing's  very 
irregular.  Up  in  the  line — that's  you  chaps' 
proper  place,  and  I  don't  understand  officers  send- 
ing men  down  out  of  it  on  any  pretense  whatever. 
You  just  tell  me  again  what  your  duty  is." 

And  Henderson  told  him. 

"All  right,  my  lad,  and  you  do  it  then ;  and  get 
back  to  your  battalion  as  fast  as  you  can." 

Henderson  trudged  on,  feeling  aggrieved. 
"Blasted  M.P.'s — they  take  jolly  good  care  to  keep 
safe  out  of  it  themselves,  and  tell  you  to  'urry 
back  there."  And  he  thought  of  the  military 


240  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

police,  both  mounted  and  on  foot,  as  the 
infantryman's  deadly  foes,  more  treacherous, 
conscienceless,  and  more  powerful  than  the 
Germans;  dogging  you  on  the  march,  lying  in 
ambush  to  trip  you  up,  entangling  you  with 
unpublished  regulations.  "So  many  lawyers  and 
magistrates — that's  what  they  ought  to  V  bin, 
not  soldiers." 

A  strange  battalion  was  occupying  the  huts  in 
the  field  where  his  own  lot  had  lain ;  and  he  made 
a  long  and  conscientious  hunt  for  Mr.  Ashmore's 
glasses,  but  without  avail.  Some  good-natured 
officers  helped  him,  but  all  their  search  was 
fruitless.  Nor  could  he  obtain  any  tidings  of 
Captain  Berkeley.  On  the  advice  of  the  kind 
officers  he  went  to  the  Armstrong  hut  labeled 
"Town  Major,"  and  inquired  there.  But  Captain 
Berkeley  had  not  been  heard  of. 

"Awright.  Then  I  best  go  back  meself,  and 
so  report." 

But  the  idea  came  to  him  that  first  he  would 
look  in  at  the  battalion  transport  lines,  and  he  did 
BO.  Perhaps  the  captain  or  the  pince-nez  might 
have  turned  up  there.  Henderson  had  pals  among 
the  drivers. 

The  transport  lines  were  idyllic  in  the  soft 
afternoon  light,  just  a  perfect  picture  of  restful- 


THE    WRONG   DIRECTION  241 

ness  and  ease ;  a  few  barkless  trees  to  which  the 
picket  lines  were  attached,  all  the  animals  lazily 
swishing  their  tails,  the  men  all  sitting  or  standing 
by  a  black  ditch  hanging  the  cleaned  harness  on 
the  wire  fence,  rubbing  their  bits  and  chains  on 
the  dry  earth  to  polish  them,  smoking,  whistling, 
chaffing;  the  transport  sergeant  asleep  under  a 
wagon  sheet  that  spread  like  a  canopy  on  sticks 
over  the  hay  bales  and  oats  bags ;  and  the  limbered 
wagons  and  four  traveling  kitchens  parked  so  as 
to  form  a  comfortable  background  to  the  whole 
little  happy  family. 

"Cheerio!"  said  Henderson,  in  a  confidentially 
quiet  greeting,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  sergeant. 

The  transport  welcomed  him  charmingly  as 
soon  as  they  recognized  him  through  his  dirt,  and 
promptly  he  gave  himself  what  he  called  "the 
luckserry"  of  a  thorough  clean-up.  "Don't  sim 
worth  it,"  he  said;  "but  it  is  such  a  luckserry." 
So  they  lent  him  a  bucket  to  wash  in,  helped  to 
brush  his  clothes  and  get  the  earth  out  of  his  hair ; 
he  had  his  shaving  tackle  in  the  pack,  and  after 
shaving  he  stepped  forth  radiant.  One  could  see 
then  exactly  what  he  was — a  rather  silly-looking 
man  of  thirty-three,  with  watery  blue  eyes,  a 
feeble  chin,  and  a  mustache  that  would  have 
drooped  and  straggled  if  it  had  not  been  severely 


242  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

pruned  into  the  military  Charley  Chaplin  pattern. 
Before  the  war  he  had  been  a  milkman  at  Norwood 
and  he  spoke  now  precisely  as  he  used  to  speak  on 
his  round  to  cooks  and  kitchen-maids,  his  eyes 
very  wide  open,  but  blinking  spasmodically,  as  he 
related  marvelous  events  that  he  had  just  read  in 
the  newspaper. 

"Bad  up  there,  is  it,  Hendy?" 

"I  tell  you,  lads,  it's  fairly  chronic.  7  never 
seen  anything  like  it,  and  I  seen  a  bit  in  me  time. 
Sergeant  Hulk — you  won't  never  see  him  again; 
no,  nor  Jack  Yates  nor  Hackett  nor  Price.  Mr. 
Bevill,  he's  killed  outright.  Both  Mr.  Cooper  and 
Mr.  Crane  'as  been  'it — severe.  The  losses  has 
been  something  fearful.  I  reckon  when  the  lists 
come  to  be  made  out,  arf  the  comp'ny's  gone.  I 
don't  envy  you  your  trip  this  evenin' — and  that's 
straight." 

They  asked  him  to  stay  to  tea,  but  he  said  no, 
time  forbade;  he  must  get  back  to  the  battalion. 
Then  he  relented.  Tea  was  almost  ready;  the 
chimney  of  one  of  the  traveling  kitchens  was 
sending  up  smoke;  men  were  carrying  dixies. 
Presently  he  was  having  a  glorious  tea.  He  sat 
with  his  back  to  a  wagon  wheel,  drinking  the 
sweet,  strong,  boiling  hot  tea,  devouring  immense 
pieces  of  bread  and  jam,  feeling  absolutely  happy. 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  243 

"You  transport  do  yourselves  all  right,  what! 
An'  I  don't  blame  you.  Eat  and  drink  while  you 
may,  for  when  you  can't  who  shall  say?"  And 
he  laughed  and  blinked,  glad  to  have  made  the 
others  laugh  by  this  witty  quotation. 

He  ingratiated  himself  with  the  transport 
sergeant  by  a  graceful  compliment. 

"If  I  may  venture  to  say  so,  Sergeant,  your 
mules  look  in  the  prime  of  their  condition.  It's 
a  pleasure  to  regard  them." 

And  after  tea  the  sergeant  did  the  honors  of 
the  lines,  taking  him  up  and  down  behind  the 
animals'  tails ;  the  sergeant  patting  favorite  brutes 
on  their  hindquarters,  even  toying  with  their 
tails,  while  Henderson  kept  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance but  went  on  admiring  all  through  the 
promenade. 

"But  I  must  be  getting  back ;"  and  he  began  to 
put  on  his  equipment. 

"Come  up  with  us  and  the  wagons." 

"No,  I  mustn't  wait  for  that  ...  So 
long,  boys."  And,  shouldering  his  rifle,  he  set  out. 

Soon  he  had  left  the  happy  village  behind,  ancl 
he  was  trudging  up  the  long  road,  with  the  rail- 
way cutting  at  its  side.  When  he  got  near  the 
beginning  of  the  communication  trench  he  halted. 
He  looked  down  the  steps  into  it,  and  thought  of 


244  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

all  that  those  infernal  duck-boards  would  lead  him 
to.  And  suddenly  an  invisible  distaste  pos- 
sessed him.  It  was  not  fear;  it  was  not  merely 
fatigue;  it  was  a  crisis  of  overwhelming  disgust 
and  disinclination.  If  he  had  been  marching  up 
with  his  platoon  he  would  have  felt  none  of  it; 
but  because  he  was  utterly  alone,  with  no  one  to 
give  him  an  order  or  set  him  an  example,  he  could 
not  resist  it. 

Next  moment  he  was  slithering  down  the  steep 
bank  of  the  railway  cutting.  He  climbed  up  the 
opposite  bank,  came  out  on  the  weedy,  shell- 
marked  plain,  and  stumbled  along,  with  his  back 
to  the  whole  system  of  trenches.  "But  this  won't 
do,"  he  muttered  feebly.  "I  want  to  get  back  to 
my  battalion."  Nevertheless  he  continued  to 
trudge  on,  in  the  wrong  direction ;  keeping  to  the 
high  ground,  avoiding  the  valleys,  with  the  low 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  on  his  face,  and  the  gigan- 
tic, fantastic  shadow  of  a  fully  equipped  infantry- 
man trailing  after  him  as  he  crossed  each  patch 
of  bare  ground. 

Not  far  from  a  little  wood  he  unharnessed 
himself  from  his  kit  and  lay  down  to  sleep.  When 
he  woke  it  was  daylight  again,  and  the  sun  had 
just  risen,  a  long  way  off,  over  the  German 
trenches.  He  sat  up,  feeling  headachy  and 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  245 

stupid,  and  it  took  him  a  little  while  to  get  his 
bearings  and  to  realize  that  this  was  to-morrow 
morning. 

"By  gosh/'  he  thought,  "I  must  get  back  to  the 
battalion  precious  quick  now,  or  I  shall  fairly 
catch  it." 

He  stood,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  star- 
ing eastward  at  the  place  of  duty  and  torment. 
He  had  drifted  an  enormous  distance  from  it 
already.  And  soon  he  was  drifting  on  again,  still 
in  the  wrong  direction. 

On  all  sides  he  was  surrounded  by  the  British 
Army,  but  it  was  the  zone  of  divisions  in  support, 
divisions  in  reserve,  departmental  troops,  and  so 
forth.  A  mile  to  his  right  there  was  a  large  camp, 
and  he  saw  strings  of  horses  passing  across  the 
plateau  on  their  way  to  water.  Except  for  this, 
nobody  seemed  yet  stirring.  Ahead  of  him  lay 
green  grass,  wide  fields,  and  little  woods  in  full 
foliage.  Each  wood,  as  he  knew,  concealed  an 
inhabited  village.  It  all  looked  delightful  in  the 
fresh  morning  light.  This  part  of  the  world  had 
become  more  familiar  to  him  than  Norwood,  Tulse 
Hill,  or  Sydenham  had  been  in  the  days  before  the 
war;  and  he  thought  now  of  the  village  of  Ligny 
TAbbaye :  he  thought  of  the  village  as  one  of  the 
most  charming  spots  on  earth — a  little  haven 


'246  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

where  the  battalion  had  lain  sheltered  and  happy 
during  six  weeks  of  rest.  He  would  go  there,  look 
up  old  friends,  and  get  a  mouthful  of  breakfast. 
An  hour  or  two  later,  he  came  down  a  lane  from 
the  hillside  under  the  pleasant  trees  among  French 
peasants  with  farm  wagons,  round  the  corner  by 
the  church,  into  the  main  street.  The  village,  as 
usual,  was  occupied  by  a  battalion.  Platoons 
were  being  dismissed  from  early  parade ;  the  cooks 
were  busy:  it  was  breakfast  time.  His  special 
friends,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Marizot,  lived  at 
the  small  farm  at  the  top  of  the  street,  but  before 
he  got  to  them  he  was  pounced  upon.  It  was  a 
slight  pounce  this  time,  made  by  battalion  police, 
not  the  regular  M.P/s.  Asked  who  he  was,  and 
where  he  was  going,  he  told  some  cock-and-bull 
tale  of  how  he  had  been  sent  by  his  officer  to  collect 
washing  that  had  been  left  behind  when  the  unit 
moved.  "Marizot — that's  the  name,"  and  he 
pointed.  "Lame  old  chap  that  limps.  Oh,  it's 
all  right,  I  assure  you,"  he  said  confidently;  and 
they  believed  him  and  let  him  pass.  There  was 
something  of  a  foundation  to  this  little  tale,  be- 
cause, in  fact,  Madame  Marizot  did  wash  shirts 
and  collars,  and  he  had  arranged  with  her  to  do 
so  for  Captain  Berkeley,  when  for  a  little  while  he 
>vas  acting  as  servant  to  that  officer.  \ 


THE   WRONG   DIRECTION  247 

Old  Marizot,  his  wife,  his  daughter  Elise,  and 
the  children,  welcomed  Private  Henderson  with 
effusion.  They  made  much  of  him  as  a  valued 
friend,  setting  him  down  to  table,  and  giving  him 
a  splendid  breakfast  in  their  comfortable  kitchen. 
The  farm  was  overrun  by  a  platoon  of  the  strange 
battalion,  but  they  did  not  interfere  with  the 
honored  guest,  and  he  spent  a  most  restful,  happy 
day  there.  He  could  talk  no  French,  and  his  hosts 
could  talk  no  English,  but  nevertheless  they 
seemed  to  understand  each  other  perfectly,  eking 
out  the  conversation  with  gestures,  friendly  taps 
and  nudges,  and  much  laughter.  A  little  stream 
divided  Marizot's  garden  from  the  orchards,  and 
in  the  warm  sunny  afternoon  Private  Henderson 
had  a  bath  down  there,  making  his  toilet  very 
slowly,  afterward  sitting  on  the  grass  with  his 
housewife  open  at  his  side,  and  doing  a  little 
stitching  and  mending.  Little  Jeanne,  aged  five, 
with  her  brother  Eugene,  aged  four,  joined  him 
when  he  was  dressed;  and,  using  his  clasp  knife 
with  considerable  skill,  he  made  a  toy  boat  for  the 
children,  which,  when  launched  upon  the  stream, 
provided  them  all  three  with  amusement  till 
supper  time. 

Next  day  he  tore  himself  away.  His  kindly, 
generous  hosts  conveyed  to  him  that  they  would 


248  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

have  been  glad  if  he  could  stay  longer,  but  by 
energetic  signs — such  as  shouldering  his  rifle, 
aiming  at  the  invisible  foe,  and  so  forth — he  gave 
them  to  understand  that  he  was  compelled  to  leave 
them  and  return  to  the  battalion.  Then  they  filled 
his  haversack  with  provisions  for  the  journey. 

Throughout  that  day  he  drifted  on,  always  in 
the  wrong  direction,  keeping  to  the  fields  and  open 
places,  picnicking  on  dry  banks  among  dog  roses, 
and  quietly  musing. 

He  knew  his  altered  position,  his  new  status, 
perfectly  well.  He  thought  of  those  things  that 
are  read  out  from  time  to  time  on  parade. 
Desertion.  Nothing  else,  of  course.  How  would 
it  read  in  his  case?  "Private  Henderson  tried  by 
field  general  court-martial  for  desertion — in  that 
he  absented  himself  from  his  battalion  when  in 
the  line — was  found  at  a  village  in  the  rear  five 
days  subsequently — sentenced  to  death.  Sentence 
of  the  court  was  carried  out  at  6:45  A.  M.  on  the 
24th  inst."  Something  like  that,  what? 

Yet  he  enjoyed  it.  The  quiet,  the  peace,  the 
sensation  of  holiday-making  soothed  and  glad- 
dened him.  Above  all,  he  was  enjoying  the 
supreme  relief  after  so  much  effort  and  strain. 
It  was  sufficient  for  happiness  to  be  here,  free, 
obeying  A  no  orders  except  the  impulse  of  the 


THE    WRONG   DIRECTION  249 

moment;  eating  and  drinking  when  he  pleased, 
sitting  down  to  rest  when  he  pleased,  getting  up 
and  moving  on  again  when  he  pleased. 

During  the  course  of  this  long,  rambling  day — 
for  he  rambled  purposely,  in  order  to  dodge  the 
town  of  Le  Merval,  and  to  keep  wide  of  the  large 
village  of  Chapelle-aux-Bois — he  thought  lazily  of 
his  whole  career,  passing  in  review  much  of  his 
life  as  a  milkman,  and  nearly  all  of  his  life  as  £ 
soldier,  taking  a  meditative  retrospect,  without 
any  method  or  brain  fag.  A  hard  master,  Mr. 
Garrett  at  the  dairy,  saying  rude  things  if 
incensed ;  accusing  Henderson  of  being  half-witted 
when  accidents  occurred,  and  vowing  he  had  no 
more  intellect  that  a  boy  of  eight.  It  had  been 
much  the  same  story  at  first,  after  he  enlisted  so 
gallantly  in  1914.  He  was  slow  in  learning  the 
tricks  of  his  new  trade,  and  the  authorities  had 
threatened  to  draft  him  out  of  the  army  alto- 
gether as  "wanting  in  the  upper  story."  But  he 
had  learned  it  all  in  time ;  he  had  shown  himself  as 
good  as  the  best  of  'em.  "Simply  surprisin'  the 
way  I've  stuck  to  it,"  he  thought,  with  a  glow  of 
honest  pride.  "Three  years."  And  as  though 
he  had  been  seated  at  a  cinema  theater,  he  saw 
moving  pictures  of  his  life  during  those  inter- 
minable three  years.  Training,  crossing  the 


250  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

Channel  at  night,  marching  on  the  straight 
French  roads,  fighting,  digging  trenches; 
marching  again,  drilling  and  training  again,  as 
though  it  was  all  to  begin  once  more — more 
fighting,  more  digging — sleeping  out  in  rain, 
snow,  mud,  frost — digging,  fighting,  marching. 
"Considerin'  my  original  constitution,  and  my 
chest  measurement,  it  is  simply  surprisin*  'ow  well 
I've  done."  He  had  received  compliments  and 
recognition,  too.  And  he  thought  of  how  he  had 
been  a  lance  corporal,  and  of  how  the  stripe  had 
been  taken  away — not  for  a  crime,  or  any  foolish- 
ness, but  simply  from  his  kindness  and  good 
nature  in  dealing  with  others.  "Didn't  assert 
himself  sufficiently;"  that  is  what  the  company 
sergeant-major  said,  and  vividly,  as  though  it  had 
been  yesterday,  he  recalled  the  little  scene  in  the 
orderly  room,  when  he  was  taken  before  the 
colonel.  He  had  spoken  up  with  great  dignity  on 
that  occasion.  "If  it's  to  be  said  that  I  have 
failed  in  the  power  of  command,  I  ask  it,  in  justice 
to  myself,  to  be  reverted  to  the  ranks."  "If  that 
is  your  own  wish,"  the  colonel  had  replied,  "it 
shall  be  done.  And,  in  the  circumstances,  I  think 
it  does  you  credit."  There!  That  was  a 
compliment  from  the  commanding  officer  himself, 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  251 

seated  in  his  orderly  room.     He  had  not  lost  his 
stripe,  but  had  renounced  it  at  his  own  request. 

His  wife,  however,  couldn't  understand  it; 
nagging  at  him  in  her  letters,  when  he  told  her  to 
drop  the  title  and  address  him  for  the  future  as 
No.  12561,  Private  Henderson,  No.  14  Platoon,  D 
Company.  What  a  hullabaloo  she  had  set  up 
when  he  patriotically  enrolled  himself  in  August, 
1914.  "Don't  tell  me  you've  done  that,  James. 
If  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  run  away  from 
your  wife  and  children,  I'll  never  speak  to  you 
again.  Don't  come  back  here  in  your  uniform, 
for  you'll  find  the  door  shut  in  yer  face!"  But 
she  grew  reconciled  to  it,  and  was  proud  to  walk 
out  with  him  in  his  uniform.  She  had  her  sepa- 
ration allowance,  and  the  extra  for  the  kids,  and 
she  got  on  very  well  without  him.  She  said  so  in 
her  letters.  Those  kids  were  growing  up  fast — 
older  than  Jeanne  and  Eugene.  He  thought  of  the 
pride,  the  affection,  and  the  anxiety  of  his 
relatives  in  following  his  fortunes  as  a  soldier. 
Not  too  much  of  these  emotions,  but  enough  to 
make  them  all  take  it  badly  if  things  happened  to 
go  wrong.  His  sister  Sue  and  her  husband — a 
man  earning  big  money  in  munitions,  and 
consequently  rather  swollen-headed  and  uppish — 


252  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

would  be  the  first  to  say:  "I  told  you  so."  They 
had  always  belittled  him — not  being  so  openly 
rude  as  Mr.  Garrett,  the  dairyman — but 
conveying  the  same  offensive  suggestions.  "What 
do  you  suppose  you're  going  to  do  in  the  army?" 
said  Sue  at  the  very  beginning.  "It's  big  strong ' 
men  like  Jack  what's  wanted  to  make  soldiers — 
not  little  weedy  chaps  like  you." 

"Then  if  Jack,  and  all  such  fine  fellows,  had 
gone,  perhaps  I  might  have  consented  to  stay 
behind."  Had  her  there,  anyhow  1  But  she 
might  get  her  revenge  now. 

And  again  he  thought  of  it.  The  ugly  word 
and  ugly  sound  of  it.  Desertion.  He  tried  to 
forget  it  altogether,  and  walked  on,  still  enjoying 
himself.  He  felt  like  a  murderer  who  tries  to 
forget  the  rope — and  he  succeeded. 

Toward  the  evening  he  was  following  one  of 
the  great  main  roads,  a  noble  thoroughfare,  up 
and  down  which  mechanical  traffic  flowed  in  an 
almost  continuous  stream.  The  character  of  the 
country  had  changed;  there  were  more  inhabit- 
ants, more  enclosures,  if  possible,  more  camps; 
and  he  had  been  unable  to  keep  to  the  open.  Many 
troops  were  on  the  march ;  and  he  himself  looked 
exactly  like  a  man  who  had  dropped  out  of  the 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  253 

ranks  of  a  battalion  moving.  He  so  explained 
himself  when  questioned. 

"Hullo,  my  lad!    Where  are  you  going?" 

"Coin'?"  he  asked  innocently.  "Why,  I'm  wiv 
me  own  battalion.  They  gone  by  here,  haven't 
they?" 

"Then  you  shove  along  after  them.  Don't  hang 
'about" 

These  policemen  at  barriers  and  cross-roads 
were  regulating  the  traffic,  averting  blocks,  cau- 
tioning drivers  for  excessive  speed ;  and  they  did 
not  bother  about  infantry,  except  when  called  upon 
to  clear  the  road  for  a  column.  They  knew  that 
the  mounted  police  who  ride  at  the  tail  of  every 
brigade  could  be  trusted  to  drop  on  any  strag- 
glers. "Pass  along" — that's  what  they  told  him; 
for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been  the  metro- 
politan police  in  dear  old  England. 

Absolutely  unchallenged  he  passed  along 
through  a  quiet  dignified  town  that  seemed  to  be 
army  headquarters,  or  perhaps  only  headquarters 
of  two  or  three  cavalry  divisions.  It  was  full  of 
saddle  horses,  motor-cars,  officers  in  red  hats ;  and 
the  military  police  were  so  busy  saluting  here  that 
they  did  not  throw  him  a  word.  He  came  out 
again  through  all  their  barriers,  and  footed  it  on 


254  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

the  broad  westward  road,  with  his  face  to  the  red 
fires  of  the  setting  sun. 

He  found  a  cozy  sleeping-place  up  against  real 
hay-ricks,  and  a  little  after  dawn  he  was  chatting 
with  some  A.S.C.  men  in  charge  of  empty  lorries. 
He  craved  a  lift  and  asked  where  they  were  going. 

"Belong." 

"Belong V9  He  gasped.  The  sea-coast!  Then, 
receiving  permission  to  do  so,  he  climbed  up  over 
the  tail-board  of  a  lorry,  and  sat  puffing  and 
blowing.  The  drivers  thought  he  was  a  man  for 
leave  who  had  somehow  missed  the  train  at  rail- 
head. He  looked  like  a  leave  man  in  his  service 
cap,  with  the  steel  helmet  slung  at  his  shoulder, 
with  pack,  respirator,  side  arm,  entrenching  tool ; 
and  they  did  not  notice  that,  unlike  a  leave  man, 
he  was  without  an  overcoat. 

At  the  port  his  real  peril  began,  and  he  shook 
with  dread.  He  felt  remorse,  too.  He  was  like 
a  dreamer  awakened.  Such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  in  the  battalion;  he  would  be  the  very 
first ;  his  name  would  be  remembered  and  detested 
forever.  When,  tremblingly,  he  had  worked  his 
way  down  through  the  town  and  reached  the 
sunlit  open  spaces  by  the  quay  and  the  bridge,  the 
sight  of  all  the  police  with  their  red  cap  bands 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  255 

and  their  arm  badges  froze  his  blood.  They 
guarded  each  end  of  the  bridge ;  they  seemed  to  be 
here,  there,  and  everywhere.  It  was  a  certainty 
that  he  would  be  nabbed. 

He  looked  about  him  despairingly.  Across  the 
water  the  town  station  was  like  an  ugly  fortress 
or  prison,  and  the  hotels  suggested  houses  of 
detention;  a  black  engine  and  a  black  sinister 
train  of  closed  trucks  was  moving  across  the  road- 
way to  the  sound  of  a  melancholy  horn;  to  the 
right  he  saw  the  pier  station,  trains  of  ordinary 
coaches,  mail  steamers  with  signal  flags  flying. 
Crowds  of  real  leave  men  were  hastening  toward 
the  boats ;  the  sun  shone  with  pitiless  brightness ; 
and  the  fresh  sea  breeze  came  to  him  along  the 
quay,  salt  and  clean,  with  wonderful  whispers  in 
it — whispers  of  freedom,  of  home,  but  never  a 
whisper  of  hope. 

He  shambled  away  toward  the  Folkestone 
Hotel.  He  dared  not  face  the  town  again,  and  yet 
he  knew  that  down  here  by  the  water  was  the 
special  danger  zone.  But  he  could  not  keep  away 
from  it.  Presently  he  was  back  near  the  bridge. 
A  lot  of  leave  men  were  coming  along  the  quay  on 
this  side  of  the  river — in  no  formation,  or  order, 
without  officers  to  direct  them,  just  straggling 
down  from  the  rest  camp  to  the  boats.  Instinc- 


256  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

tively,  rather  than  from  any  plan,  Private 
Henderson  hid  himself  among  these  men,  crossed 
the  bridge  with  them  unchallenged,  and  went  with 
them  down  the  other  quay  toward  the  pier  sta- 
tion and  the  boats.  But  his  footsteps  lagged  upon 
the  hard  stones.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  He 
had  only  jumped  a  little  further  into  the  deadly 
trap.  Not  a  chance  of  getting  safely  on  the  boats, 
stowing  himself  away,  reaching  the  other  side. 
Every  man's  warrant  would  be  examined  at  the 
gangway  going  on,  and  again  when  going  off. 

Suddenly  his  hair  stood  on  end.  He  was  face 
to  face  with  Captain  Berkeley. 

"What  are  you  doing?     Leave?" 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  looking  for  you — and,  thanks  be 
to  goodness,  I've  found  you  at  last." 

"What  do  you  mean?    Got  a  letter  for  me?" 

"No,  sir.     I  was  sent  to  find  you." 

"Who  sent  you?" 

"Mr.  Ashmore." 

"Where  from?" 

"The  line,  sir." 

'The  line!  Well,  what  is  it?  What  was  his 
message?" 

In  the  hurry,  sir,  he  gave  me  no  exact  message. 
He  just  like  sent  me  off,  at  the  double." 

"To  come  right  down  here  to  meet  the  boat?'* 


THE    WRONG    DIRECTION  257 

"No,  sir,  to  St.  Gregoire — first  of  all.  And  not 
seeing  you  there,  I  come  on — bit  by  bit — tracing 
you  like." 

The  officer  asked  a  few  more  questions,  and 
suspected  something  very  fishy.  Then  the 
wretched  Henderson  confessed,  asked  to  be  saved, 
appealed  for  mercy.  "I  don't  sim  to  understand 
how  I  done  it.  I  sim  to  have  bin  'arf  mad  like — 
not  truthfully  knowing  what  I  was  doing."  And 
to  give  poignancy  to  the  appeal,  he  reminded 
Captain  Berkeley  how  he  had  once  acted  as  his 
servant.  "I  done  my  best  for  you,  sir,  that  night 
you  was  hit.  I  was  a  good  servant  to  you,  sir." 

"No,  you  were  a  very  bad  servant.  That's  why 
I  sent  you  back  to  duty." 

"Well,  I  tried.  I  have  tried,  sir,  all  along.  I 
ain't  very  strong — and  the  len'th  of  my  service 
tells  on  me.  But  God  knows  I've  tried.  Don't 
let  me  be  disgraced.  Don't  let  the  battalion  be 
disgraced  through  my  cause.  Take  me  back  with 
you." 

And,  right  or  wrong,  Captain  Berkeley  did  it. 

Fate,  too,  was  kind  to  Private  Henderson. 
During  his  absence  the  trenches  had  been  knocked 
about  again;  Mr.  Ashmore  had  gone,  badly 
wounded;  so  much  had  happened  that  Henderson 
had  been  reported  as  missing  only  this  morning. 


258  LIFE   CAN   NEVER  BE   THE   SAME 

They  believed  his  tale  that  Lieutenant  Ashmoro 
had  improperly  sent  him  away  on  a  tedious  errand, 
and  they  asked  no  questions. 

Three  weeks  later  he  went  over  the  top  among 
his  pals,  and  was  killed  with  great  credit.  So  it 
all  ended  happily,  as  one  may  say. 


THE  CHANGING  POINT  OF  VIEW 

WHEN  the  war  broke  out,  Mr.  Veal  looked 
round  his  little  shop  with  a  despairing 
glance,  and  cursed  the  fools  who  had  made  this 
war  to  ruin  him.  He  was  the  Whiteley  or  Self- 
ridge  of  the  village,  selling  all  the  things  that  the 
villagers  wanted  without  the  trouble  of  going  to 
the  market  towns  to  fetch  them — on  one  side  of 
the  door,  grocery,  stationery,  tobacco ;  on  the  other 
side,  ironmongery,  hardware,  a  certain  amount  of 
drapery,  every  kind  of  odds  and  ends — a  good 
stock,  and  now,  in  a  moment,  half  of  it,  three- 
quarters  of  it,  changed  to  waste  rubbish  on  his 
hands. 

Mentally  he  measured  the  full  extent  of  the 
disaster.  The  cavalry  regiment  at  the  barracks 
over  the  hill  would  of  course  go  to  the  war;  wives 
of  officers  and  hangers-on  in  the  little  houses  along 
the  Salisbury  Road  would  disappear ;  all  the  young 
men  from  the  village  would  go ;  the  old  men  and 
women  who  remained  would  be  hard  up,  and  their 
custom  would  drop  to  nothing;  taxes  would  rise, 
agriculture  would  languish ;  he  might  just  as  well 
put  up  the  shutters  and  be  done  with  it. 

259 


260  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

He  was  a  small,  sandy  man  of  forty-five — one 
of  those  hard  little  men  of  quick  brain  and  inex- 
haustible physical  energy,  and  he  had  put  twenty 
years  of  unceasing  work  into  his  business ;  doing 
all  right,  keeping  his  head  above  water,  but  never 
really  thriving — never  really  getting  adequate 
reward  for  the  severe  and  sustained  effort.  In  the 
last  year  or  two,  perhaps,  his  prospects  had 
brightened,  and  now  this  was  the  end  of  it.  Curse 
the  fools,  calling  themselves  statesmen,  who  had 
ruined  him! 

He  unfolded  the  Daily  Mail  on  the  counter, 
looked  again  at  the  immense  head-lines  that 
heralded  the  upheaval,  and  would  have  wept,  had 
not  Miss  Hames  been  looking  at  him.  Then,  sud- 
denly, his  thoughts  took  a  new  turn ;  it  was  as  if 
a  fever  that  had  driven  everybody  else  mad  swept 
from  a  distance  into  his  veins.  As  the  paper  said, 
this  was  going  to  be  a  tremendous  conflict;  every 
man  would  be  wanted  for  it.  Why  should  he  not 
go  himself?  And  his  thoughts  worked  with 
astounding  rapidity.  Business  done  for;  alone  in 
the  world,  a  widower — two  daughters  married — 
no  one  dependent  on  him.  Leave  Miss  Hames  in 
charge,  to  carry  on  and  save  what  she  could  out 
of  the  wreck  ?  Strike  a  blow  for  England ! 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Miss  Hames. 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF    VIEW  261 

"Nothing.     Go  on  with  your  work." 

He  had  startled  Miss  Hames  by  standing  up 
behind  the  counter  and  slapping  his  chest.  A 
burst  of  patriotic  ardor  was  quite  carrying  him 
away.  Here  goes !  In  imagination  he  saw  it  all 
— marching,  fighting,  glory,  and — death?  Well, 
and  he  gulped  and  turned  up  his  eyes,  that,  too, 
perhaps;  but  one  need  not  brood  on  that.  Do  it, 
without  a  word  to  anybody,  now. 

A  few  minutes  afterward  he  was  on  his  bicycle, 
pedaling  for  all  he  was  worth.  He  arrived  at  the 
barracks  in  a  perspiration — very  hot,  almost  burn- 
ing, both  inside  and  out. 

"Well,"  he  cried  jovially.  "I  have  rolled  up." 
And  he  leaned  his  bicycle  against  the  iron  gates 
of  the  barrack  square.  Nobody  took  any  notice  of 
him.  There  were  rows  of  wagons  being  loaded; 
soldiers  with  strange-looking  equipment  were 
moving  in  all  directions;  the  whole  place  was 
changed,  full  of  queer  preparations. 

"I  have  rolled  up."  He  said  it  again  to  a  non- 
commissioned officer  who  was  passing. 

"What  say?" 

"I  have  rolled  up.  Recruit  Number  One — for 
the  war." 

With  some  little  difficulty  he  prevailed  on  them 
to  take  him  to  the  busy  orderly  room  for  an 


262  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

interview  with  an  officer.  They  did  not  exactly 
laugh  at  him  in  the  orderly  room,  but  they  got 
rid  of  him  without  unnecessary  delay.  The  regi- 
ment was  full  strength — he  was  absurdly  over 
age — not  a  rider — and  so  forth.  He  had  not 
thought  of  these  things  until  then.  They  advised 
him  to  go  to  Salisbury,  and  make  an  application 
at  the  recruiting  office  there.  He  biked  back 
across  the  hill  to  the  little  railway  station  on  the 
branch  line,  and  an  hour  and  a  half  afterward 
arrived  at  Salisbury.  At  the  recruiting  office  he 
was  received  as  if  he  had  come  for  the  purpose  of 
playing  an  ill-timed  joke.  It  was  soldiers  that 
they  wanted  for  the  war,  not  middle-aged  grocers. 
When  he  said  that  he  would  soon  pick  up  the 
tricks  of  soldiering,  they  told  him  that  he  was 
ridiculously  too  old  to  learn.  Considerably  huffed, 
he  said  that  he  would  see  what  the  recruiting 
officer  said  about  it  at  Winchester  or  Andover. 
But  he  did  not  try  his  luck  at  these  other  towns ; 
he  went  home  disgusted. 

He  thought  worse  of  things  than  ever.  If  this 
was  the  way  they  started,  how  could  one  hope  that 
they  would  win?  You  can't  fight  a  war  without 
men;  and  here,  at  the  very  kick-off,  they  had 
refused  an  able-bodied,  wiry,  well-proportioned 
man,  full  of  grit  and  pluck,  just  because  he  was 
a  few  years  over  their  peace-time  age  standard. 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OP    VIEW  263 

Meeting  the  vicar  outside  the  yard  where  he 
kept  his  two  carts  and  horses,  he  could  not  refrain 
from  expressing  his  feelings  on  the  subject. 

"Do  you  mean,  Mr.  Veal,"  said  the  vicar,  "that 
you  have  really  offered  your  services  to  the  coun- 
try in  this  moment  of  peril?" 

"I  do,"  said  Mr.  Veal,  "and  they  won't  have 
me." 

"I'd  like  to  shake  hands  with  you,"  said  the 
vicar.  "You  have  set  an  example  to  everybody." 

"Oh,  bother  that,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Veal.  "I 
wasn't  after  compliments.  I  wanted  to  do  my 
duty,  and  it  seems  they  won't  let  me." 

"Mr.  Veal,"  said  the  vicar,  "it  was  fine  of  you. 
There  is  no  other  word  for  it." 

And  the  vicar's  sympathy  did  Mr.  Veal  a  lot  of 
good. 

Then,  almost  immediately,  he  made  the  wonder- 
ful discovery  that,  far  from  ruining  him,  the  war 
was  going  to  make  his  fortune.  He  could  sell 
anything.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  buy  things — 
any  sort  of  things — and  sell  them  again  at  a  large 
profit. 

The  regular  cavalry  regiment  had  gone,  but  a 
large  reserve  regiment  had  come  in  its  place. 
Troops  of  the  new  formations  were  pouring  into 
the  neighborhood.  The  hillside,  the  downs,  the 
Whole  country  for  miles  and  miles,  s?ere  becoming 


264  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

one  vast  camp.  Quick  to  realize  possibilities  that 
offered  themselves,  he  threw  himself  with 
redoubled  energy  into  the  expanding  enterprise. 
He  bought  stock  with  Napoleonic  boldness;  he 
took  the  cottages  on  each  side  of  him  at  a  high 
rent;  he  hired  sheds,  barns,  outbuildings,  for  use 
as  storehouses.  In  the  midst  of  it,  he  rubbed  his 
hands  and  slapped  his  chest,  and  said  how  he 
would  like  to  go  himself. 

"But  they  won't  take  me — though  I  dessay  I'm 
as  solid  as  many  of  the  youngsters."  He  urged 
every  one  to  go  and  enlist;  acted  as  amateur  re- 
cruiting sergeant,  as  he  rushed  about  the  country ; 
sometimes  brought  in  a  few  recruits  in  his  cart, 
and  saw  them  off  at  the  station.  He  saw 
everybody  off,  and  was  full  of  geniality  on  the 
platform ;  then  hurried  back  to  his  shop  to  put  the 
price  up  again.  He  told  the  shop  girl  who  helped 
him  principally:  "Those  writers'  companions  at 
sixpence,  what  we  used  to  do  at  twopence,  put  'em 
at  ninepence.  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  get  any 
more."  And  just  then,  perhaps,  a  Tommy, 
coming  in,  asked  for  one. 

"I  say,  ninepence?  It  was  only  sixpence  yes- 
terday." 

"Yes,  my  lad,  and  likely  'twill  be  a  shilling  to- 
morrow. You  are  lucky  to  get  one  at  all." 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF    VIEW  265 

And  he  used  to  say,  with  immense  joviality,  to 
the  soldiers  who  caviled  at  his  price :  "You  seem 
to  forget  there's  a  war  on." 

It  surpassed  all  dreams.  He  was  expanding  so 
fast  that  there  seemed  no  limit  to  the  expansion, 
unless  perhaps  the  want  of  labor  and  transport 
stopped  him.  These  people  would  buy  anything — 
not  only  the  ignorant  soldiers,  but  the  officers,  the 
officers'  wives,  their  servants.  Regimental  quar- 
termasters and  transport  officers  almost  staggered 
one  by  their  demands.  Three  hundred  balls  of 
string,  miles  of  tape,  chaff-cutting  machines  at 
twice  the  pre-war  cost. 

"Could  you  possibly  get  me  six  more  machines 
by  Saturday?" 

"I'll  do  my  best,  sir.     I  can't  say  more." 

At  night,  as  he  lay  in  his  lonely  but  comfortable 
bed,  he  wished  that  the  war  might  go  on  for  ever. 

Miss  Hames  was  a  splendid  assistant,  and  she 
helped  him  loyally,  knocking  into  shape  the  un- 
trained hands  that  he  hastily  collected  for  her, 
and  seeing  that  they  set  about  it  in  style.  She 
fretted  a  little  at  first,  when  her  sweetheart  went, 
but  she  was  now  reconciled.  Never  did  a  man 
have  a  better  right  hand,  and  the  thought 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  marry  her. 
Couldn't  do  a  wiser  thing.  Directly  he  had  made 


266  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

up  his  mind  that  it  was  good  business,  he  saw  the 
romantic  side  of  it  also.  She  had  a  nice  figure, 
and  the  good  looks  that  go  with  health  and  youth. 
She  was  a  pleasant  companion.  Two  years  of 
widowerhood  is  long  enough  for  mourning, 
especially  when  the  times  are  moving  fast. 

He  proposed  to  Miss  Nellie  Hames,  and,  in 
speaking  of  his  glorious  prospects,  he  let  out  his 
secret  thought.  He  said  that  there  was  nothing 
that  he  might  not  attain  to,  if  the  war  lasted  long 
enough. 

"Oh,  heaven  forbid !"  said  the  girl. 

"Heaven  forbid,  too,"  said  Mr.  Veal.  "Well, 
you  think  it  over.  I  don't  want  to  influence  you, 
but  I  wouldn't  let  the  idea  of  Dick  Harf  ord  inter- 
fere. In  this  awful  conflict,  what  is  the  chance 
of  his  coming  back  ?  That's  what  I  read  into  this 
talk  about  conscription.  All  the  first  lot  will  be 
wiped  out.  The  government  has  made  up  their 
mind  to  it,  and  recognizes  the  fact." 

They  were  married.  And  he  became  more 
prosperous  than  ever.  The  shop  and  its  exten- 
sions were  crowded  with  customers  all  day  long, 
winter  and  summer.  The  size  of  the  camps  was 
gigantic;  solid  huts  had  been  built,  and  two 
hospitals  had  been  organized.  Wounded  soldiers 
coming  in  to  buy,  and  hearing  the  price  of  things, 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF   VIEW  267 

used  to  say,  "Spare  us,  kamerad!"  and  put  up  their 
hands  facetiously.  But  he  could  not  spare  them 
— war  is  war — and  they  bought  just  the  same. 
With  his  wife  there  in  the  shop,  he  could  run 
about  over  this  vast  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  picking 
up  gold  and  silver.  He  supplied  people  with 
furniture,  either  on  hire  or  by  purchase ;  he  sold 
bicycles,  typewriting  machines,  ready-made 
clothes,  second-hand  motor-cars.  He  just  bought 
and  sold  again ;  it  did  not  matter  what. 

A  child  of  the  marriage  was  born  to  them,  but 
unhappily  it  soon  died.  He  was  a  little  at  sea 
during  his  wife's  illness,  but  he  ran  up  to  the  sick- 
room from  time  to  time  during  the  course  of  the 
day,  to  cheer  his  poor  invalid  with  news  of  rapid 
and  fortunate  transactions. 

When  he  read  about  raising  the  military  age,  he 
applauded.  "Thirty-five.  Jolly  good  job,  too. 
About  time  some  of  these  slackers  were  combed 
out." 

At  the  second  combing,  he  was  as  pleased  as 
ever.  "Forty.  Well,  if  they're  wanted,  I  say 
take  'em,  and  be  done  with  it.  But,  mind  you,  it 
shows  how  the  casualties  out  there  are  mounting 
up,  to  make  it  necessary." 

He  did  not  really  regret  the  loss  of  the  child, 
fond  as  he  was  of  children.  Working  night  and 


268  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

day,  doing  one's  bit  to  the  best  of  one's  ability, 
one  has  not  leisure  for  the  softer  joys  of  life.  A 
nursery  in  war-time  is  a  luxury  that  good  patriots 
should  not  crave  for. 

Nellie  felt  her  sorrow  heavily,  but  the  bereave- 
ment left  her  free  to  return  to  the  shop,  and  he 
urged  her  to  do  so ;  it  was  best  for  her — no  good 
to  sit  and  mope.  "Besides,  in  these  cruel  times, 
one  has  not  the  right.  We  are  at  war." 

At  the  next  come-out  and  rise  of  age  he  became 
a  little  anxious.  If  the  war  went  on  long  they 
would  get  the  military  age  up  to,  well — something 
ridiculous.  And  no  sense  in  taking  men  over 
forty-five.  How  can  such  men  be  of  any  real  use? 
Eye-wash.  A  trick  of  the  politicians  to  satisfy 
the  public  with  a  paper  army,  when  they  feel  the 
strain  upon  the  army  in  the  field. 

One  night  there  was  a  supper-party  at  his  house 
— his  own  nephew  from  the  war  on  leave,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  lad's  friends ;  all  in  uniform,  all  war 
veterans;  his  wife's  old  sweetheart,  Corporal 
Harford — not  killed  yet — was  among  them.  Cor- 
poral Harford's  presence  caused  no  distress  to 
Mrs.  Veal,  and  no  uneasiness  to  her  mind.  All 
that  old  sentiment  had  been  wiped  out  by  the 
gigantic  progress  of  events ;  it  belonged  to  the  dim 
past;  and  the  corporal  himself  seemed  to  have 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OP    VIEW  269 

forgotten  all  about  it.  At  any  rate,  he  bore  no 
malice  toward  anybody,  but  was  as  jolly  as  a 
sandboy. 

"Now  then,  Nellie/'  said  Mr.  Veal,  "what  about 
a  glass  of  our  special  port  for  these  heroes  ?"  and 
he  laughed  gaily.  He  was  as  cheery  as  ever, 
showing  to  advantage  as  a  host,  in  this  comfort- 
able, well-furnished  dining-room ;  able  to  drop  the 
cares  of  business — or,  at  least,  to  seem  to  do  so — 
for  an  hour's  kind  fellowship. 

"They  feed  you  all  right  out  there?" 

"Oh,  yes.    No  complaints." 

"Well,  I  envy  you  young  fellows.  Fill  your 
glasses.  Here's  a  health  to  victory." 

And  he  went  on  pleasantly,  touching  on  his  own 
position.  "We  do  our  bit  in  our  own  way,  keeping 
things  together,  but  there's  no  glamour,  no  glory 
for  us." 

And  one  of  them  said,  "Oh,  your  turn  will  come. 
Every  able-bodied  man  will  be  out  before  it's 
over." 

"So  they  ought  to — the  able-bodied  ones."  And 
Mr.  Veal  took  another  glass  of  his  excellent  port. 
"All  say  it's  a  wonderful,  healthy  life." 

"Yes,  it'd  be  healthy  enough,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
shells." 

"Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you  take  your  chance." 


270  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

"And  a  precious  poor  chance  it  is.  Eh,  old  pal  ?" 
And  they  all  laughed  contentedly. 

These  lads  explained  how,  every  year,  every 
month,  the  war  grew  worse — more  gas,  more 
artillery  fire,  more  hateful  new  inventions  of 
bombs  and  mortars.  "But  when  all's  said  and 
done,"  remarked  one  of  them  philosophically,  "in 
the  end  it  comes  back  to  the  old  weapons — the 
bay'net  and  the  rifle." 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "it's  the  hand-to-hand 
fightin'  that  wins  war,  and  proves  who  is  really 
the  best  man." 

"I  suppose  the  bayonet  fighting  is  sharp  work," 
said  the  host,  rather  feebly. 

"You  bet" 

And  one  of  them  brought  in  his  rifle  and  side 
arm,  and  gave  them  a  demonstration,  while  they 
sat  at  table  and  watched.  "In — out.  D'ye  see?" 
Showing  them  how  the  bayonet  stuck  in  the 
enemy's  body,  if  you  didn't  withdraw  it,  and 
giving  more  and  more  details — how  you  kicked 
your  adversary  to  make  him  double  up,  if  he  was 
holding  your  weapon,  and  hit  him  with  the  fist; 
and  they  imitated  the  death  grunt  of  the  stuck 
man — further  explaining  how  you  got  stuck 
yourself,  if  you  tripped  or  fell,  or  were  wounded. 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Mr.  Veal,  "ladies  present." 


THE   CHANGING    POINT    OF   VIEW  271 

But  Mrs.  Veal  begged  them  to  go  on,  and  said 
she  loved  it.  She  was  sitting  with  her  arms  on 
the  table  and  her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  eyes 
bright,  and  her  cheeks  glowing,  as  she  watched. 
"I'd  like  to  think  they  had  stabbed  every  German 
out  there,  and  shown  no  mercy  to  those  who  don't 
know  what  mercy  is." 

"Nellie!  I  didn't  imagine  you  were  so  blood- 
thirsty." 

"I  am  thinking  of  the  women  and  children  they 
have  murdered." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Veal,  rallying  himself. 
"There,  I  heartily  concur." 

It  nearly  made  him  sick,  this  bayonet  exercise. 
He  went  out  into  the  back  yard,  feeling  all  hot 
and  cold,  as  if  he  was  really  going  to  be  ill. 

He  became  thoughtful  after  this,  and  he  no 
longer  wanted  the  war  to  continue  indefinitely.  He 
had  done  well — very  well.  If  necessary,  he  was 
ready  to  retire  to-morrow. 

As  the  combing  process  continued,  he  took 
special  steps  to  confirm  his  position  as  indispen- 
sable and  exempt.  He  obtained  testimonials,  and 
a  letter  to  this  effect  from  the  general  officer 
commanding  a  division,  saying  that,  in  view  of  the 
circumstances,  his  emporium  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  comfort  of  the  troops.  If  the 


272  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

army  didn't  want  to  upset  him,  that  ought  to  be 
the  end  of  it.  But  he  also  made  great  friends  with 
the  general's  lady,  who  resided  with  headquarters 
at  a  country  house  two  miles  from  the  village; 
putting  in  work  for  her  at  half  cost,  and  running 
round  the  country  in  his  car,  getting  chickens  and 
eggs  for  her. 

He  stood  extraordinarily  well,  too,  with  all 
local  tribunals  and  courts.  He  had  absolutely 
established  the  thesis  with  them — an  indispensable 
business.  But  friends  at  court  gave  him  the  tip 
to  find  substitutes.  "You  can't  go  yourself;  but 
show  you  take  the  patriotic  view,  in  depleting 
your  business,  sparing  every  available  soul — no 
matter  how  inconvenient." 

He  acted  quickly  on  the  hint.  He  sent  from  the 
furniture  store  a  good  staunch  fellow,  whose  only 
drawbacks  were  obesity  and  defective  vision,  and 
got  the  man's  own  father  to  replace  him.  He  sent 
the  man  who  drove  the  carts,  and  entrusted  his 
valuable  horses  and  vehicles  to  mere  boys.  He 
sent  the  gray-haired  foreman  of  ironmongery; 
and  then,  as  a  last  substitute,  at  very  considerable 
inconvenience,  he  parted  with  Logan,  who  had 
been  with  him  from  the  first  days  of  the  boom — a 
real  worker  of  the  good,  old-fashioned  sort. 

Old  Logan  did  not  want  to  go,  even  after  an 


THE   CHANGING    POINT    OP   VIEW  273 

appeal  to  his  patriotism  had  been  made.  How 
could  he? — he  asked — with  an  ailing  wife  and  a 
family  of  young  children. 

''They'll  be  all  right/'  said  Mr.  Veal  encour- 
agingly. "The  State's  not  going  to  let  them  come 
to  want  while  you're  doing  your  duty." 

"It  isn't  fair,"  said  Logan,  limping  through  the 
yard  with  a  bale  of  oilcloth  on  his  shoulder.  "I 
ain't  up  to  it." 

"The  country  is  in  danger,"  said  Mr.  Veal, 
following  him.  "The  collapse  of  our  principal  ally 
has  altered  the  whole  complexion  of  affairs.  If 
you  realized  all  that's  at  stake,  you  wouldn't 
hesitate." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  yourself?" 

"I  can't  be  spared." 

"Who  can't  spare  you  ?" 

"The  Authorities."  Then  Mr.  Veal  lost  his 
temper.  "Look  here.  I'm  disgusted  with  you. 
Take  your  week's  money  and  clear  out  of  this. 
I've  kept  you  so  far  out  of  charity,  but  I'm  fed  up 
with  it." 

"You've  kep'  me— out— of— charity?"  The 
man  was  wounded  to  the  heart.  "You  say  that, 
after  the  way  I've  worked  fer  you  these  three 
years  ?" 

Then  came  the  awful  advance  of  fifty — fifty- 


274  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

five — and  the  announcement  of  the  new  comb-out. 
And  that  night  Mr.  Veal  did  not  sleep  a  wink. 
Monstrous !  He  thought  of  bayonet  fighting ;  and 
the  thought  of  it  made  him  first  perspire  and  then 
come  all  over  deadly  cold.  He  was  so  fit.  This 
talk  of  grading  was  more  than  half  buncombe ;  no 
one  could  rely  on  promises  and  precautions;  the 
government  were  reckless  now.  They  would  use 
him — as  food  for  cannon. 

In  the  morning  he  was  all  right  again.  He  felt 
disgusted;  but  sure,  after  calm  reflection,  that 
they  would  not  touch  him.  And  he  boldly  spoke 
of  his  disgust.  "I  call  it  throwing  up  the  sponge. 
What  effect  will  it  have  on  the  enemy?  They're 
cute  enough  to  see  through  it.  How  can  it  help 
but  hearten  them  an'  put  fresh  courage  into  'em? 
They'll  read  it  as  a  public  admission  that  we  are 
done — to  go  and  call  up  men  of  fifty  and  fifty- 
five." 

But  he  had  changed  his  mind  about  it  by  the 
time  he  met  the  vicar.  He  knew  he  was  safe,  and 
he  said,  "It's  right,  sir.  We're  face  to  face  with 
the  biggest  proposition  in  hist'ry.  No  half 
measures." 

"I  admire  your  spirit,"  said  the  vicar.  "I  always 
have.  You  teach  us  all  a  lesson." 

"No,  no,  sir — I  can't  admit  that  a  moment." 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF    VIEW  275 

"Yet  you  are  willing,  at  your  age,  to  lay  aside 
everything?" 

And  Veal  answered,  with  perfect  truth,  "I  am 
as  ready  to  go  to-day  as  I  was  a  year  ago.  .  .  . 
Only,"  he  added  impressively,  "the  military  have 
themselves  decided  that  I  am  more  use  to  them 
here  where  I  am  than  I  should  be  over  there." 

Then,  after  a  little  while,  he  got  another  tip 
from  the  general  or  the  general's  lady.  It  is  all 
very  well  to  say  that  his  business  is  indispensable, 
but  is  he  indispensable  to  the  business  ?  Some  one 
has  said  that  his  wife  could  run  it,  that  she  does, 
in  fact,  run  it  while  he  is  all  over  the  place  with 
his  motor-car. 

That  evening  after  supper  he  had  a  talk  with 
his  wife.  They  were  alone  in  the  comfortable 
dining-room;  although  spring  was  coming  on 
again,  the  wood  fire  that  crackled  and  blazed 
cheerfully  could  not  be  considered  an  extrava- 
gance, for  it  was  cold  out-of-doors. 

"This  war  is  an  awful  affair,"  he  began,  using 
a  leader  in  the  newspaper  to  set  him  going.  "The 
more  one  envisages  it,  the  more  overwhelming  it 
appears.  I  regard  it  now  as  a  crusade — it's  the 
struggle  for  right  against  wrong ;"  and  he  looked 
at  her.  "Every  man,  woman,  and  child  who  can 
strike  a  blow  for  England  is  wanted.  No  consid- 


276  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

erations  must  be  allowed  to  hold  one  back.  If 
one  can  help,  one  must  go.  This  applies  to  our 
household,  as  much  as  to  the  humblest  cottage. 
We've  no  right  to  put  the  business  on  a  pinnacle, 
thinking  of  what's  best  for  its  welfare." 

"No.  Does  this  mean  you've  made  up  your 
mind  to  go?" 

"No.  For  me  it's  out  of  the  question.  It's  you 
I'm  thinking  of.  Nell,  I  know  your  noble 
sentiment  about  it,  the  things  you've  said,  the  fine 
manner  in  which  you've  expressed  your  ideas  of  it 
ever  since  it  began.  Well,  if  you  feel  restless  and 
unhappy  at  me  holding  you  back,  I — I  won't  stand 
in  your  way." 

"But  what  could  I  do?" 

And  he  said  there  were  these  W.A.A.C/S,  and 
the  other  corps,  half  a  dozen  corps.  "Don't  you 
be  afraid  that  you  won't  be  jumped  at,  Nellie. 
You  are  young  and  strong.  See  what  you've  gone 
through  without  flinching  in  the  work  of  the 
business.  You  have  got  the  physique  as  well  as 
the  spirit.  You'd  never  break  down." 

She  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and  was  walking 
about  the  room.  Her  cheeks  had  flushed  and  her 
eyes  glowed;  he  saw  that  she  was  taking  fire  at 
the  notion. 

"Mind  you,"  he  went  on,  "it's  pretty  rough  on 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF    VIEW"         277 

me.  But  at  the  point  of  crisis  we  have  reached, 
nothing  and  nobody  is  to  be  allowed  to  count  in  the 
balance."  And  he  told  her  how  "the  Authorities" 
refused  to  let  him  go  himself.  He  had  had  a  heart- 
to-heart  talk  with  the  general;  and  his  place  is 
here,  helping  the  troops.  He,  as  the  brains  of  the 
business,  can't  be  spared.  She,  as  the  manager, 
can. 

She  took  fire,  and  went.  It  was,  she  felt,  what 
she  had  always  wanted  to  do.  He  saw  her  off  at 
the  railway  station,  just  as  he  had  seen  off  every- 
body else  in  these  long  sad  years. 

"Good-by,  Nell.  Be  of  good  cheer.  I  seem 
almost  like  the  poor  old  camel — this  is  the  last 
straw,  parting  with  you."  And  he  spoke  cheerily, 
patting  her  shoulder,  kissing  her,  and  buying  her 
an  illustrated  newspaper.  She  was  not  yet  in 
uniform.  She  would  go  straight  to  London  and 
enlist  there  in  the  corps  that  most  needed  recruits, 
do  her  training,  and  qualify  herself  for  service 
oversea.  "Good-by.  My  word,  shan't  I  be  proud 
of  you  when  all's  over  and  you  come  back  safe  and 
sound?" 

He  stood  waving  his  handkerchief  as  the  train 
carried  her  away. 

He  felt  that  he  must  be  safe  now.     Nothing 


278  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

could  touch  him.  A  little  lonely — but  he  scarcely 
noticed  that;  he  was  so  busy.  The  business  was 
going  stronger  than  ever.  The  profit  was  almost 
farcical.  You  could  sell  a  sixpenny  photograph 
frame  for  half  a  sovereign.  The  amount  of  his 
purchases  of  war  bonds  seemed  fabulous  as  he  ran 
through  private  papers  late  at  night,  and  he  con- 
gratulated himself  on  having  avoided  ostentation 
by  buying  in  a  quiet  confidential  manner,  instead 
of  flourishing  a  check  book  at  public  meetings. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  he  was  not  truly  easy  in 
his  mind.  The  world  had  been  upside  down  long 
enough.  It  was  time  it  righted  itself.  Things 
were  too  precarious — even  when  feeling  secure, 
you  never  knew  that  the  solid  ground  would  not 
fail  under  your  feet.  Peace  would  ruin  the  busi- 
ness ;  but  he  had  made  his  pile,  and  was  ready  to 
retire. 

He  talked  very  like  a  Pacifist  sometimes. 

"After  all,  what  are  we  fighting  for?  What 
were  our  aims,  as  recited  by  responsible  states- 
men in  the  autumn  of  1914,  and  repeated  by 
others,  times  and  often  since  then?  Don't  tell  me 
that  the  Germans  haven't  had  their  bellyful  of 
war.  They  won't  want  to  begin  again." 

Then  came  the  catastrophe.  A  sudden  rumor 
floated  round  the  village,  a  wild  tale  that  all  the 


THE    CHANGING    POINT    OF    VIEW  279 

troops  were  leaving,  that  the  camps  and  hospitals 
and  barracks  were  to  be  vacated,  that  other  camps 
were  to  be  used  somewhere  else.  Mr.  Veal  sprang 
into  his  motor-car  and  dashed  off  to  the  G.O.C.'s 
headquarters. 

The  general  was  packing;  the  general's  lady  had 
already  packed  and  gone;  an  aide-de-camp  gave 
him  a  brief  interview.  Yes,  in  confidence,  the 
whole  place  was  to  be  abandoned. 

"But  why?" 

"Ask  me  an  easier  one,"  said  the  A.D.C. 
genially.  And  he  added,  as  a  possible  explanation, 
that  perhaps  the  authorities  had  some  scientific 
fears  about  polluted  ground.  Troops  are  like 
poultry:  they  should  not  be  kept  too  long  on  the 
same  bit  of  ground. 

In  ten  days  they  had  all  vanished — the  village 
was  exactly  what  it  had  been  four  years  ago,  and 
Veal's  business  had  dropped  to  the  original  noth- 
ing. It  was  impossible  now  to  say  that  he  was 
indispensable  to  troops,  because  there  were  no 
troops  left  within  fifteen  miles. 

He  struggled  hard  to  avoid  and  evade,  but  it 
was  useless.  They  graded  him  in  the  top  class; 
and  that,  as  every  one  said,  meant  that  it  was  only 
a  question  of  time  before  he  was  pushed  out  into  a 
place  of  danger. 


280  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAMB 

Nevertheless,  he  put  a  good  face  on  it. 

"I  must  say,"  said  the  vicar,  "that,  everything 
considered,  it  is  rather  rough  luck  on  you." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Veal  jauntily.  "I  was 
always  ready  to  go,  and  I  wish  they  had  let  me 
go  at  first." 

"I  always  admired  your  spirit." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Veal. 

And  he  went,  seen  off  by  many  friends. 

A  month  later  he  reappeared  in  all  his  glory — 
an  officer.  He  was  engaged  in  the  Refreshment 
Branch  of  the  Army,  Home  Service,  and  had  just 
been  gazetted  as  Honorary  Temporary  Captain 
while  so  employed. 


JOAN  OF  ARC 

ADELAIDE,  the  under  housemaid  at  Belmont, 
XJL  was  a  very  shy,  diffident  girl;  so  much  To, 
that,  dressing  for  her  evening  out,  she  blushed  at 
the  sight  of  her  brilliant  new  hat.  She  felt  that 
if  she  had  been  pretty,  it  would  have  been  easy 
enough  to  carry  off  such  a  hat;  but  she  wasn't 
pretty,  like  Edith  the  parlor-maid,  and  she  knew 
it.  She  was  not  grand  and  dashing  like  Mrs. 
Vaughan,  the  cook;  not  elegant  and  graceful,  like 
Emily,  the  head  housemaid;  not  even  black- 
haired  and  pale-faced,  or  full  of  fascinating  sauce 
and  impudence,  like  Loo,  the  kitchen-maid.  When 
chaffed,  she  never  had  an  answer  ready,  and  if  she 
thought  of  one  afterward  she  was  too  timid  to 
go  back  and  say  it. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  of  her  attic  bed- 
room and  wondered  if  Lyndhurst,  the  small  house 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  would  ever  let  again. 
It  was  beginning  to  have  a  shabby,  war-bat- 
tered  aspect,  in  painful  contrast  to  the  general 
prosperity  of  Hill  Road.  Between  the  side  walls 
of  Lyndhurst  and  the  villa  next  to  it  she  had  a 
fine  view  of  the  clustering  roofs  of  the  suburb; 

281 


282  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

and  farther  off  she  could  see  the  open  country, 
and  the  main  line  of  the  South  Western  Railway, 
along  which  the  troop  trains  had  already  been 
running  for  nearly  three  years.  Unseen,  at  the 
bottom  of  Hill  Road,  was  the  corner  round  which 
you  plunged  into  traffic,  gaiety,  noise — trams  and 
omnibuses  passing  by;  the  big  public  houses, 
shops,  cinema  theaters;  life.  It  was  at  this 
corner  that  young  men  used  to  hang  about, 
waiting  for  the  young  ladies  of  Hill  Road  on  their 
evenings  out.  But  no  young  man  had  ever  waited 
there  f  01;  Adelaide. 

Thinking  of  the  corner,  she  felt  almost  too  shy 
to  face  it — especially  in  her  new  hat.  But  it  was 
her  evening  out,  and  she  had  to  go  out.  Presently 
she  had  sidled  round  the  corner,  and  was  in  the 
crowd  of  the  big  street.  In  spite  of  the  hat, 
nobody  took  the  least  notice  of  her;  she  might  have 
been  invisible;  and  gradually  she  became  less 
self-conscious  and  more  capable  of  enjoying  her 
promenade.  By  the  time  she  had  reached  the 
third  picture  palace  and  was  standing  outside  it, 
looking  at  the  posters  and  the  photographs,  she 
had  quite  forgotten  herself. 

"JOAN  OF  ARC:  The  film  that  aroused  a 
nation."  She  stood  gaping  at  the  highly-colored 
portrait  of  a  young  lady  in  armor  on  a  white  horse. 


JOAN    OP    ARC  283 

"Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednesday.  Do  not  miss  it. 
It  has  moved  young  and  old,  on  both  sides  of  the 
Atlantic.  You  can  not  see  it  and  go  away  just  the 
same  as  you  were  before." 

What  did  that  last  bit  mean?  Adelaide  raised 
her  gloved  hand  and  felt  her  hat,  with  a  return  of 
uneasiness.  And  then  the  young  soldier  spoke 
to  her. 

"Going  inside?" 

"Beg  pardon?"  said  Adelaide,  almost  fainting 
from  the  suddenness  of  this  surprise  attack. 

"I  passed  the  remark  whether  you  were  going 
in  to  see  the  show." 

"I  wasn't  intending,"  Adelaide  gasped. 

"No  more  was  I,"  said  the  soldier;  "that  is,  not 
alone.  But  I  don't  mind  if  you  don't.  Shall  us  ?" 

Adelaide  was  speechless. 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  the  soldier;  and  he  led 
her  through  the  hall  to  the  pay-box. 

"I  got  my  purse,"  said  Adelaide,  finding  her 
voice  in  the  closeness  of  the  danger. 

"I  treat." 

"Oh,  no — please." 

He  had  done  it,  paid  for  both ;  and  next  moment 
he  was  holding  her  firmly  by  the  arm,  guiding  her 
through  the  darkness,  keeping  her  off  many  toes 
that  she  would  otherwise  have  martyrized,  pre- 


284  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

venting  her  from  sitting  on  a  strange  gentleman's 
lap,  and  finally  depositing  her  in  an  unoccupied 
seat  side  by  side  with  himself.  Her  heart  was 
beating  wildly,  her  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl.  She 
was  out  with  a  soldier,  being  stood  treat  to  the 
pictures.  Breathing  fast,  she  peered  toward  the 
stage. 

It  was  the  end  of  a  prairie  sketch.  As  usual, 
the  sheriff  and  his  posse  were  arriving  at  a  gallop. 
They  released  the  men  bound  to  the  tree,  and  the 
lights  went  up;  and  Adelaide  saw  the  closely- 
packed  audience,  and  stealthily  glanced  at  her 
soldier.  He  was  sunburnt,  young,  fair-haired. 

"War  nougat,"  said  a  brightly-dressed  girl  at- 
tendant, coming  along  the  gangway  with  a  small 
tray  of  boxes.  "War  nougat.  Nougat  bits. 
Very  sweet.  Nice  nutty  flavor." 

"Here,  miss,"  said  the  soldier.  "Give  me  a  box, 
please.  How  much  ?" 

"Two  shillings.     Thank  you." 

"Do  you  eat  that  stuff?"  asked  Adelaide, 
determined  to  make  conversation. 

"No,  but  I  expect  you  do ;"  and  he  handed  her 
the  box  of  war  sweets. 

"Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  think— I  can't  allow " 

"Gammon.  Don't  be  huffy  about  it.  Why  not? 
I  meant  no  offense," 


JOAN    OF    ARC  285 

And  Adelaide,  to  her  indescribable  surprise,  saw 
that  he  was  blushing;  and  a  wonderful  but  very 
comfortable  idea  flashed  into  her  mind.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  he  was  almost  as  shy  by  nature 
as  she  was? 

"I'm  not  offended,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him. 
"I  think  it's  very  kind  of  you,  only " 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  and  he  smiled  at  her. 
"I'm  on  leave,  I  am.  I  saved  up  for  it." 

The  lights  went  down,  and  a  brief,  exhilarating 
interlude  entitled  The  Runaway  Motor-car  was 
vividly  presented.  Adelaide  sucked  her  sweets, 
laughed  at  the  runaway  car  until  she  nearly 
choked.  When  the  lights  went  up  again  the 
soldier  was  wiping  tears  from  his  eyes. 

"I  do  like  a  laugh,"  he  explained,  as  he  slowly 
recovered  his  composure.  "My  name's  Budd — 
Dick  Budd.  You  haven't  told  me  your  name  yet." 

"My  name's  Cross — Ad'laide  Cross,"  said  Ade- 
laide, carefully  imitating  the  formula. 

"I'm  out  in  France,  with  my  battalion.  The 
Sixteenth  Battalion." 

"It's  dreadful  out  there,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  it's  right  enough." 

"You  say  that,  but  I  don't  expect  you  mean  it." 

"0'  course  I  do,"  and  he  looked  hard  at  her, 
as  though  not  understanding  why  she  should  doubt 
his  word. 


286  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Were  you  always  a  soldier — I  mean,  before  the 
war?" 

"No,  I  was  in  a  warehouse." 

Never  in  her  life  had  Adelaide  experienced  such 
a  sequence  of  pleasurable  sensations — delicious 
flutter  of  excitement,  laughter,  sucking  sweets; 
and  now  an  unforced  flow  of  conversation;  a 
swiftly-evoked,  mysterious  sympathy  that  made 
companionship  joy,  that  destroyed  bashfulness. 

"When  it's  over,  what  will  you  do — go  back  into 
business  ?" 

"Not  me,  Ad'laide.  No,  I  shall  go  out  to  the 
colonies." 

Then  the  lights  went  down  again,  and  the  piece 
of  the  evening  began. 

One  was  introduced  to  a  charming  American 
girl,  who  had  dressed  for  a  fancy  ball  as  Joan 
of  Arc.  In  this  costume  she  showed  herself  to  her 
elder  brother,  a  man  of  considerable  position 
under  the  government,  who  expressed  admira- 
tion of  the  attractive  costume  by  face  and  gesture, 
and  finally  asked  her  a  simple  question  in  large, 
plain  handwriting. 

"Who  was  Joan  of  Arc?" 

No  question  could  have  been  more  opportune; 
for  most  of  the  audience,  including  Adelaide,  were 
anxious  for  further  information  on  the  point. 


JOAN    OP    ARC  287 

The  young  lady  replied  to  him  with  a  concise 
written  statement ;  and,  time  being  permitted  for 
it  to  soak  into  the  audience,  all  became  duly  seized 
of  the  historical  or  traditional  facts,  with  regard 
to  the  Maid  of  Orleans. 

The  elder  brother  immediately  changed  the  con- 
versation, becoming  frowningly  serious,  and 
saying  to  his  sister: 

"The  war  is  not  going  well.  There  are  too 
many  sleepers.  I  despair  of  waking  them." 

Then,  after  the  ball,  the  young  lady  went  about 
America  on  a  white  horse,  with  a  banner,  and 
woke  the  sleepers.  Everybody  flocked  to  the 
banner.  The  women  as  well  as  the  men — both 
sexes  could  help. 

But  this  was  not  all.  Next  one  saw  her  in  the 
war  itself.  She  had  traveled  the  horse,  and  on 
its  back  in  France  she  did  remarkable  things.  The 
generals  trusted  her  more  and  more;  and  when 
they  had  given  her  full  powers,  she  fairly  got  the 
Huns  on  the  run.  But  at  length  the  routed  com- 
mander-in-chief  of  the  enemy  by  subterfuge, 
captured  her,  and  shot  her  as  vengeance,  while 
the  whole  mob  were  hurrying  back  to  Berlin.  Her 
last  words  flashed  upon  the  screen. 

'7  do  not  die  in  vain.  Those  I  have  awakened 
will  not  sleep  till  the  work  is  done.'9 


288  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Of  course  the  unrolling  of  this  drama  took  a 
considerable  time;  the  film  was  a  long  one; 
intervals  were  allowed.  During  the  intervals 
Adelaide  talked  volubly  to  her  companion.  Her 
face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  glowed,  her  voice  shook 
a  little  with  emotion;  she  had  been  carried  com- 
pletely out  of  herself.  She  was  a  different  girl. 
But  for  the  hat,  her  fellow  servants  would  not 
have  recognized  her  if  they  had  seen  her  chatter- 
ing to  the  soldier. 

"Dick,  is  it  like  that  out  there?" 

"Well,  I  can't  exactly  say  I've  seen  such  things 
myself.  I  been  mostly  in  Flanders  and  down  by 
Arras.  I  don't  quite  follow  how  she  got  up  so  far 
like.  Mostly  the  girls — you  know,  the  ones  in 
khaki  as  well  as  the  nurses — aren't  allowed 
to  come  up  beyond  the  principal  headquarters. 
I  should  have  thought  the  military  police  would 
have  stopped  her." 

"But  it  was  the  generals  invited  her — to  save 
the  situation." 

"Ah!" 

"Dick.  Tell  me  true.  Where  the  girls  do  get 
to — are  they  ever  under  fire?" 

"You  bet.  They  get  shelled  proper  now  and 
again.  Why,  you'll  see  the  nurses'  names  in  the 
lists." 


JOAN    OP   ARC  289 

"Then  if  a  girl  showed  herself  what  Joan  of 
Arc  showed  herself!" 

Dick  saw  her  home  right  up  Hill  Road  to  the 
gate  of  Belmont,  where  they  lingered,  talking 
confidentially.  It  was  a  splendid  summer  night, 
and  Adelaide  looked  up  at  the  moonlit  sky, 
wondering  if  the  fine  atmospheric  conditions 
would  tempt  Hun  raiders.  Instead  of  thinking 
about  the  coal  cellar  as  a  refuge,  she  imagined 
herself  seated  in  a  battle  plane  high  up  there, 
waiting  to  drive  off  the  intruders.  She  felt  like 
a  sleeper  awakened ;  great  thoughts  stirred  in  her. 

"Ad'laide,  you  see  I  like  you." 

"I  like  you  too,  Dick." 

They  promised  to  write  to  each  other,  and 
moved  up  the  road  a  little  way  to  exchange  postal 
addresses,  that  they  scribbled  in  the  shaded  light 
by  a  lamp-post. 

"I  shall  come  straight  to  see  you  next  leave.  I'd 
come  again  this  leave,  if  I  wasn't  booked  down 
home  at  Poole." 

"You  mayn't  find  me  here,  Dick.  But  I'll  write 
and  tell  you,  wherever  I  go  to." 

"Promise — and  kiss  on  your  promise.  I  like 
you,  Ad'laide." 

"I  like  you,  Dick.  But,  Dick,  I  shan't  never 
marry  you  unless  I  feel  I'm  worthy  of  you," 


290  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Well,  I  haven't  gone  so  far  as  to  ask  you  that, 
have  I  ?"  Then,  as  if  struck  by  an  ungallant  turn 
in  these  words,  or  as  if  suddenly  making  up  his 
mind,  he  said  with  firmness,  "But,  you  know,  I 
want  for  us  to  be  engaged  like." 

Adelaide  answered  not  firmly  of  tone,  for  there 
was  a  little  break  in  her  voice,  but  with  a  decision 
of  purpose  that  was  unmistakable. 

"No,  Dick,  you  go  away  from  me  free,  an* 
you'll  come  back  to  me  free.  Think  of  your  duty 
first,  an'  me  afterwards.  An',  an'  remember  my 
words.  I  shan't  never  consent  to  marry  you  unless 
I  feel  in  me  own  self  I'm  worthy  of  you." 

As  Adelaide  said  these  and  other  astounding 
things,  trifling  with  an  offer  that  would  have 
seemed  fantastically  advantageous  a  few  hours 
ago,  she  looked  upward  to  the  summer  sky.  Tears 
had  come  to  her  eyes,  and  unconsciously  she 
raised  her  hand,  assuming  the  exact  attitude  of 
the  film  young  lady  during  the  delivery  of  that 
last  speech.  "Those  I  have  awakened  will  not 
sleep  until  the  work  is  done/' 

"I  shan't  change  my  mind,  Ad'laide." 

"Nor  mine.    Good-by,  dear." 

And  they  hugged  and  parted. 

With  the  feel  of  his  lips  still  on  her  face  and 
the  pressure  of  his  arms  still  seeming  to  encircle 


JOAN    OF    ARC  291 

her  body,  Adelaide  stood  by  the  kitchen  table  at 
Belmont  and  talked  to  her  fellow-servants. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Vaughan, 
the  cook,  loftily. 

"And  I  don't  understand  you'9  said  Adelaide. 
"But  I  begin  to.  There's  many  things  in  this 
house  wants  understanding.  The  missis — Mrs. 
Carter — she's  easily  understood.  Keep  the  home 
fires  burning.  That's  to  say,  five  able-bodied 
women  who  might  be  helping  to  win  the  war  kep' 
here  to  coddle  and  fuss  over  one  idle  woman — and 
her  a  widow,  too.  Funny  she  and  the  dog  would 
look  if  they  met  the  enemy  advancing  round  the 
corner!" 

"Oh,  we've  heard  that  tale  before,"  said  Edith, 
the  parlor-maid. 

"And  much  you'd  have  done  to  prevent  it 
coming  true.  You  take  the  dog  out  regular,  don't 
you,  morning  and  evening,  in  almost  all  weathers  ? 
And  Mrs.  Carter  she  gives  you  a  blouse — one  she's 
tired  of  wearing — for  your  devotion  to  Bingo, 
doesn't  she?  I  understand  that  part  of  it.  But 
I  tell  you,  Cook,  and  you,  too,  Edith — I  tell  the  lot 
of  you,  I  don't  understand  how  you've  the  face  to 
carry  on  with  it.  And  I  don't  understand  how 
you'll  look — but  precious  foolish,  I  guess — when 
the  boys  come  home  an'  ask  you,  some  of  'em, 
what  you've  done  to  help  the  cause/' 


292  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

It  was  not  new;  but,  coming  from  such  a  quar- 
ter, it  created  a  considerable  sensation.  In  the 
old-fashioned  melodramas  an  immense  effect  used 
to  be  produced  when  the  supposed  deaf  mute, 
suddenly  abandoning  disguise,  defied  and  ha* 
rangued  his  oppressors;  and  the  effect  of 
Adelaide's  outburst  was  essentially  of  the  same 
character.  She,  the  tongue-tied,  the  down-trodden, 
had  found  a  voice  and  disclosed  herself  as  outrage- 
ously uppish  in  spirit.  Surprise  robbed  her 
hearers  of  all  power  of  repartee;  for  once  it  was 
they  and  not  Adelaide  who  had  no  answer  ready* 
No  sauce  or  impudence  came  from  Loo,  not  a  flash 
from  Emily;  one  after  another  they  drifted  away 
in  crestfallen  silence,  leaving  Adelaide  seated  on  a 
corner  of  the  kitchen  table  and  negligently 
swinging  by  its  strings  the  new  hat. 

Mrs.  Vaughan  was  the  last  to  go,  after  bolting 
doors  and  locking  cupboards.  Yesterday  she 
would  have  ordered  Adelaide  out  of  her  kitchen 
before  retiring  herself.  To-night  she  said,  "Turn 
the  lights  off,  please,  when  you  come  up." 

"All  right,  Cook,"  said  Adelaide. 

Next  day  she  gave  notice,  announcing  as  her 
reason  for  departure  that  she  felt  "a  call"  to  go 
straight  out  to  the  war. 

"Something    of    this    has    reached    my    ears 


JOAN    OP   ARC  293 

already,"  said  Mrs.  Carter;  "and  I  think  you  are 
talking,  and  evidently  wanting  to  act,  in  a  foolish 
manner — in  a  manner  rather  ungrateful  to  me, 
Adelaide,  who  have  tried  so  hard  to  keep  things 
together,  and  make  you  all  comfortable,  during 
this  dreadful  war,  at  great  sacrifices  to  myself." 

In  fact,  this  was  the  first  defection  in  the  do- 
mestic ranks,  and  Mrs.  Carter  had  considered  the 
matter  with  care.  She  did  not  attach  any  value 
to  Adelaide's  services;  if  the  truth  must  be 
confessed,  Adelaide,  as  well  as  being  shy  and 
awkward,  had  shown  herself  to  be  slack  and 
incompetent;  so  that,  in  spite  of  the  disgusting 
difficulties  of  life  caused  by  this  wretched  war, 
Mrs.  Carter  did  not  doubt  that  she  could  secure  a 
better  second  housemaid  in  Adelaide's  place.  But 
the  danger  was  that  the  rest  of  the  household 
might  be  upset.  Anything  to  prevent  that.  When 
one  goes,  another  follows.  Stifling  her  pride  and 
irritation,  therefore,  Mrs.  Carter  spoke  to  the 
would-be  deserter  in  a  tone  of  affectionate 
sympathy. 

"Adelaide,  I  honor  the  emotion  that  moves  you, 
and  I'll  say  no  more  of  my  own  wishes.  But,  with 
the  best  will  in  the  world,  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  undertaking.  Believe  me,  you  are  not 
strong  enough." 


294  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Joan  of  Arc,"  said  Adelaide,  "was  only  a  poor 
weak  girl.  Yet  she  drove  the  English  out  of 
France." 

"But  you  don't  want  to  do  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Carter.  "Now  you're  talking  like  a  pro-German. 
I  don't  think  you  know  yourself  what  you  want." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Adelaide.  "I  want  to  fight 
for  the  freedom  of  the  world,  and  not  lie  snug 
a-bed  and  eat  regular  meals  here,  when  half 
humanity's  starving  and  bleeding." 

After  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  The 
only  thing  was  to  get  rid  of  her  at  once. 

"But  leaving  me,  as  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Carter, 
"without  serving  your  month,  you  go,  of  course, 
without  your  money." 

"I  prefer  to  go  without  my  money,"  said  Ade- 
laide loftily. 

Within  an  hour  she  had  packed  her  trunk,  and 
a  taxi-cab  stood  outside  the  front  door  of  Belmont. 

"Good-by,"  said  Adelaide  to  her  fellow- 
servants.  "You  won't  never  see  me  again." 

They  clustered  at  the  side  entrance  and  on  the 
gravel  drive  to  watch  her  roll  away;  and  Mrs. 
Carter  came  down  among  them,  laying  dignity 
aside  for  once,  and  encouraging  them  to  mock  and 
make  merry  at  the  deserter's  expense.  She  was 
most  anxious  to  shatter  any  dangerous  thoughts 


JOAN    OF    ARC  295 

that  might  have  been  set  working.  Nothing  is  so 
efficacious  as  ridicule. 

"Joan  of  Arc !"  said  Mrs.  Carter,  laughing  as  if 
hugely  amused.  "She  called  herself  Joan  of  Arc. 
Joan  of  Arc  going  to  buy  a  tin  sword  and  a  paste- 
board helmet."  And  she  laughed  again.  "Oh, 
dear,  how  silly  people  can  be !" 

And  by  the  way  in  which  the  servants  laughed 
and  echoed  the  name  Joan  of  Arc  she  felt  sure 
that  the  danger  was  averted. 

Adelaide  tried  to  be  a  W.A.A.C.,  to  be  a 
W.R.E.N.,  and  A.S.C.  M.T,  a  V.A.D. ;  she  tried  for 
all  the  letters  of  the,  alphabet ;  but  everywhere  she 
was  rejected.  Most  unfortunately  for  her,  at  this 
period  the  Authorities  had  decided  that  they  did 
not  want  any  more  women  for  service  with  the 
armies  in  France.  People  at  recruiting  offices  sent 
Adelaide  on  to  munitions ;  but  here  again  she  met 
with  disappointment.  None  but  skilled  hands 
were  required.  Everywhere  she  was  confronted 
with  lists  of  printed  questions;  and  when  she 
showed  that  she  had  no  qualifications  for  war 
work,  people  asked  her,  orally,  even  more  dis- 
tressing questions. 

"Can  you  cook?" 

"Are  you  a  really  good  housemaid?" 


896  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Have  you  had  practise  in  waiting  at  table?'' 

There  was  a  chance,  possibly,  of  putting  her 
into  a  work-girls'  canteen;  but  even  this  chance 
soon  vanished.  Besides,  she  did  not  want  to  wash 
plates  or  sweep  floors  here  in  England ;  she  wanted 
to  get  across  the  water  and  do  great  deeds  in 
France.  The  spirit  that  had  been  aroused  in  her 
still  burned  brightly,  but  the  sense  of  failure  fell 
cold  upon  her.  At  night  she  used  to  weep  piteous- 
ly,  thinking  of  her  soldier  boy  and  all  the  other 
brave  lads  out  there ;  and  in  imagination  she  saw 
the  uniformed  girls  waving  their  hands  to  them, 
calling  out  "Cheerio,"  perhaps  even  blowing  kisses 
to  them  as  they  marched  by,  along  the  dusty  roads 
up  toward  the  battle  front.  Why  might  not  she 
do  even  so  much  as  that?  Why  was  fate  so  cruel? 

She  had  spent  nearly  all  her  savings ;  she  dared 
not  go  home  to  her  mother  and  father  in  Wilt- 
shire— mother  would  not  understand  why  she  had 
given  up  her  situation,  and  father  was  so  old- 
fashioned  a  parent  that  there  was  no  knowing 
what  he  might  not  do  to  one,  if  really  angry.  At 
last,  driven  by  necessity,  she  accepted  the  offer 
of  a  domestic  servant's  place. 

The  offer  came  from  a  lady  that  she  had  met 
at  some  employment  committee  rooms ;  a  business- 
like, quick-speaking  lady,  called  Miss  Finlayson, 


JOAN    OP    ARC  297 

who  led  her  into  the  secretary's  office  and 
addressed  her  with  confidential  briskness. 

"By  an  accident,  it  so  happens  that  I  am  in  sore 
need  of  a  housemaid.  Three  kept — cook,  house, 
and  parlor.  Happy,  comfortable  home — but 
mind  you,  I  expect  to  see  the  work  properly  done. 
Very  good.  Then  I  am  prepared  to  take  you  at 
once — if  character  from  last  place  proves  satis- 
factory." 

"The  lady  I  was  with,"  said  Adelaide,  "couldn't 
but  give  me  a  good  character — but,  ma'am,  I 
simply  can't  apply  for  it." 

"Why?" 

Poor  Adelaide  explained  all  the  circumstances. 
She  had  left  in  order  to  enroll  herself  in  the  army ; 
she  had  spoken  strongly  on  the  duty  of  giving 
your  life  to  your  country ;  they  had  attempted  to 
laugh  her  down.  If  they  learned  that  all  the  fine 
talk  had  ended  in  this,  they  would  laugh  louder 
than  ever. 

"What  was  the  lady's  name  and  address?" 

'Td  rather  not  tell  you  even  that,"  said 
Adelaide.  "I  don't  want  no  communication  of  any 
sort  with  them." 

Miss  Finlayson  looked  hard  at  Adelaide,  and 
then  came  to  a  prompt  decision. 

"Adelaide,  I  will  risk  it.    You  appear  honest. 


298  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

Your  story  is  corroborated — to  a  certain  extent 
— by  your  applications  here  and  elsewhere.  Come 
early  to-morrow  morning.  It  is  a  thing  I  would 
never  have  done  in  peace-time.  But  the  times 
are  not  normal,  there's  no  getting  away  from  it." 

And  she  told  Adelaide  how  to  find  Number  18, 
Berwick  Road,  Hammersmith. 

"I  am  moving  from  there  shortly,"  she  added, 
with  briskness,  but  in  a  kind  tone.  "I  have  taken 
a  house  farther  out — and  you  will  all  be  happier 
there — better  air,  countrified  surroundings." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"The  house  I  have  taken  needs  considerable 
repairs,  and  I  am  having  great  difficulty  with  the 
landlord,  who  is  grasping,  dilatory  and  shifty. 
However,  directly  I  have  forced  him  to  fulfill  his 
bargain  and  render  the  place  habitable,  I  move  in. 
The  war  is  made  an  excuse  nowadays  for  repudiat- 
ing all  obligations — but  we  won't  discuss  that. 
Good  night." 

Adelaide  settled  down  in  Berwick  Road,  and 
a  dull  apathy  possessed  her.  It  was  a  relief, 
perhaps,  to  have  some  regular  meals  again,  for 
she  had  been  going  rather  short  of  food  lately; 
but  she  felt  that  her  heart  was  almost  broken. 
In  spite  of  every  effort  to  appear  cheerful,  she 
wrote  dolorous  letters  to  Private  Budd,  B.E.F. 


JOAN    OF    ARC  299 

Her  fellow-servants  were  easy  enough  to  get  on 
with,  and  they  left  her  unmolested  in  her  sadness. 
They  were  nothing  like  so  fine  and  ladylike  as  the 
maids  at  Mrs.  Carter's.  The  cook  had  been 
married  twice,  both  times  unhappily,  and  she 
sighed  and  philosophized  over  her  cooking. 
"Seems,"  she  said,  "all  the  men's  getting  killed 
off,  and  there'll  be  fewer  fools  and  more  single 
women  next  generation."  The  parlor-maid  snored 
at  night,  and  she  liked  several  glasses  of  beer 
during  the  day.  She  used  to  ask  plaintively  if 
beer  would  go  back  to  its  proper  strength  when 
peace  was  declared. 

They  saw  little  of  their  mistress,  who  was  out 
early  and  late  at  her  committees  and  hospitals. 
She  worked  hard  herself,  and  she  did  not  like  to 
see  others  slacking.  She  blended  something  of  the 
war  spirit  into  her  admonitions,  but  to  Adelaide 
it  did  not  seem  to  be  the  real  true  flame  of 
patriotism. 

"Now,  don't  go  to  sleep  over  it — not  in  war 
time,"  Miss  Finlayson  would  say.  "Remember 
there's  a  war  on.  We  all  have  to  do  our  bit.  And 
one  can  do  one's  bit  here  just  as  usefully  as  any- 
where else." 

Nevertheless,  on  the  whole,  Adelaide  liked  her 
in  a  dull  apathetic  way;  and  she  accepted 
occasional  rebukes  without  murmuring. 


300  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

After  about  a  month  the  household  moved.  Miss 
Finlayson  carried  through  the  operation  as  though 
she  had  been  a  regimental  transport  officer, 
ordering  about  the  old  men  as  they  loaded  the  two 
pantechnicon  vans,  inspecting  the  rather  scraggy 
horses,  and  seeing  that  they  were  properly  fed  be- 
fore she  gave  the  word  to  move  off.  She  had 
secured  a  private  omnibus  for  herself,  the  three 
servants,  and  all  the  light  baggage.  There  was 
so  much  of  this  light  stuff  that  it  seemed  as  if  they 
would  never  pack  in.  But  Miss  Finlayson 
managed  it  somehow ;  and  off  they  went,  so  deeply 
buried  in  parcels  that  they  could  scarcely  see  one 
another.  Adelaide  sat  nursing  band-boxes, 
brooding  sadly,  and  looking  with  lack-luster  eyes 
at  vistas  of  unknown  streets  as  the  omnibus 
slowly  and  heavily  jogged  along.  It  was  a 
tedious,  unending  drive. 

"Now,  we  are  not  far  off,"  said  Miss  Finlayson, 
at  last. 

Adelaide  had  been  dreaming.  She  roused  her- 
self, and,  glancing  through  the  window  of  the 
omnibus  door  with  faintly  awakened  interest, 
gave  a  little  start.  She  had  seen  this  street 
before ;  that  bootshop  was  an  old  friend — one,  two, 
three  cinema  palaces,  all  three  familiar  to  her. 
At  the  place  where  roads  meet,  among  the  trams, 


JOAN    OF    ARC  301 

near  the  corner  by  the  big  public  houses,  the 
omnibus  lurched  and  began  to  turn  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Hill  Road. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  gasped  Adelaide. 
"What's  the  name  of  your  house  ?" 

"Lyndhurst,"  said  Miss  Finlayson  briskly.  "We 
are  close  to  it  now.  I  recognize  the  acacia  tree." 

In  another  minute  the  omnibus  stopped  outside 
the  newly  painted  woodwork  of  Lyndhurst.  It 
was  the  little  unoccupied  house  immediately- 
opposite  to  Belmont,  Adelaide's  old  home. 

She  was  overwhelmed. 

Her  main  thought  was  to  escape  discovery  by 
the  servants  at  Belmont.  She  tried  also  to  hide 
from  tradesmen's  boys  who  might  recognize  her. 
She  never  went  out  except  after  dark,  and  then 
heavily  veiled.  But  it  was  all  no  good.  One 
morning  the  milkman  spotted  her  cleaning  the 
steps  of  Lyndhurst. 

"Bless  me!  Miss  Cross,  isn't  it — that  used  to 
be  over  the  way  ?" 

A  day  or  two  afterward  he  addressed  her 
facetiously,  and  she  knew  at  once  that  he  had 
betrayed  her. 

"Yes,  they  was  surprised  across  the  road.  They 
all  sends  their  compliments.  They  tell  me,"  and 


302  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

he  sniggered,  "as  you've  changed  your  name.  Not 
Adelaide  any  more,  but  Jane.  Jane  of  Hark,  eh  ? 
Haw,  haw!" 

It  was  bitter  to  think  of  how  they  were  all  de- 
riding her.  From  the  windows  of  Lyndhurst  she 
saw  one  or  other  of  them  many  times  in  the  day — 
Edith,  elegant  and  mincing,  as  she  emerged  early 
of  a  morning  with  the  odious  dog  Bingo ;  the  black- 
haired  Loo  without  her  hat,  dancing  down  the 
road  to  fetch  potted  meat  from  the  grocer's ;  Mrs. 
Vaughan,  dressed  like  a  duchess,  issuing  forth  to 
pay  the  weekly  books.  Mrs.  Carter  had  kept  her 
command  together;  all  of  them -were  still  there — 
although  the  milkman  said  that  Loo  had  some 
ideas  of  going  on  the  music-hall  stage  and  earning 
big  money. 

As  the  months  passed  Adelaide  carried  a  heart 
of  lead  beneath  her  print  and  serge  dresses.  No- 
where but  here  would  she  have  suffered  so 
grievously  from  the  sense  of  failure.  She  was 
sustained  only  by  two  letters  from  Private  Budd. 
In  one  of  these  he  said,  "I  have  not  changed  my 
mind ;"  in  the  other  he  said,  "We  been  through  a 
lot  lately;"  and  at  the  end  of  each  he  set  down 
signs  of  multiplication  that  meant  kisses.  She 
cried  over  these  letters  in  secret,  but  there  was 
bitterness  to  her  even  in  the  affectionate  symbols. 


JOAN    OP    ARC  303 

She  was  not  worthy  of  him,  and  never  likely  to  be. 
When  she  read  the  war  news,  and  tried  to  imagine 
what  he  and  the  others  were  enduring,  she  felt 
that  she  would  not  be  able  to  look  him  in  the  face 
— if  he  ever  returned  to  her. 

Very  dark  thoughts  came  to  poor  Adelaide  now 
that  all  the  bright  ones  had  gone.  She  had  been 
ready  to  give  her  life  to  her  country,  but  they 
would  not  take  it;  and  she  thought  sometimes 
that  she  would  take  it  herself. 

Then  Miss  Finlayson's  parlor-maid  left,  and 
Adelaide  took  on  the  parlor-maid's  worjc  as  well  as 
her  own.  She  did  not  mind  the  extra  labor; 
indeed,  in  that  it  gave  her  less  time  for  sad  rev-r 
eries,  it  was  welcome.  Miss  Finlayson  praised 
her  highly  for  thus  throwing  herself  into  the 
breach. 

"I  hope  to  relieve  you  by  the  week-end,  Ade* 
laide;  and  I'm  really  grateful  for  the  way  you've 
tackled  it." 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Adelaide. 

"How  do  you  mean  nothing?  I  think  it's  a 
great  deal,  and  you've  done  it  splendidly." 

"It's  all  child's  play,"  said  Adelaide,  "compared 
with  what  they're  doing  out  in  France." 

"Bmvo!"  cried  Miss  Finlayson  cordially. 
"That's  the  spirit,"  and  she  gave  Adelaide  a  pat 
of  approval  on  the  shoulder. 


304  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE   SAME 

A  little  later  it  was  agreed  between  them  that 
the  parlor-maid  should  not  be  replaced ;  Adelaide 
would  carry  on. 

She  worked  hard  now,  harder  and  harder.  She 
had,  it  must  be  owned,  never  really  worked  before ; 
but  that  thought  of  France  and  what  was  hap- 
pening there  made  toil  seem  easy  and  fatigue  one's 
proper  portion.  She  used  to  say  to  herself,  "If 
I'd  had  my  wish  and  been  accepted,  I'd  never  have 
been  off  duty ;  I'd  have  had  to  march  fifteen  miles 
on  end  like  those  girls  in  the  newspaper ;  I'd  'a'  bin 
busy  all  through  the  night  as  well  as  day."  So 
she  took  a  sort  of  melancholy  pleasure  in  not 
sparing  herself;  she  did  far  more  than  was 
necessary ;  and  soon  she  began  to  find  in  the  work 
almost  an  anodyne  for  failure  and  disappointment. 

"It  is  no  compliment,"  said  Miss  Finlayson. 
"You  are  making  me  a  good  deal  more  comfort- 
able than  when  we  had  Eliza." 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it,  ma'am,"  said  Adelaide. 

During  the  fogs  and  frosts  of  winter  the  cook's 
health  began  to  fail,  and,  unknown  to  Miss  Finlay- 
son, Adelaide  was  doing  a  lot  of  cook's  work  also, 
Adelaide  liked  it;  this  learning  how  to  cook 
brought  a  new  faint  interest  to  her  weary  life, 
The  cook  used  to  sit  in  an  armchair  by  the  dresser , 
sighing,  and  giving  directions. 


JOAN    OF    ARC  305 

"Have  you  buttered  your  pan?  Good.  Then 
J  pour  in  slow  and  steady.  Now  keep  stirring.  Ah, 
me,  I  shan't  last  much  longer,  Adelaide;  I'm 
breaking  up  fast.  Two  bad  'usbands  have  made 
an  old  woman  of  me  before  my  time.  Don't  let 
it  boil,  whatever  you  do.  Good  cooking,  Adelaide, 
is  just  care  and  taking  pains — nothing  else." 

Up-stairs  in  the  dining-room  Adelaide  asked 
shyly,  while  she  cleared  the  table,  "Did  you  like 
the  cabinet  pudding,  ma'am?" 

"Yes.  Tell  Mrs.  Smiles  excellent.  I  must  say 
old  Smiles  can  cook  plain  fare  against  anybody. 
If  she  ever  broke  down  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
do.  The  war  is  making  existence  more  difficult 
every  day.  Cooks  are  like  diamonds  now — fetch 
any  money." 

In  February  the  blow  that  Miss  Finlayson 
dreaded  fell  upon  her:  Mrs.  Smiles  showed 
symptoms  of  pleurisy  and  had  to  be  removed  to  a 
hospital.  Adelaide  carried  on.  "If  you  don't 
mind/'  she  said,  "I'd  much  prefer  you  didn't  get 
another.  I  shall  be  happier  doing  it  all  alone,  and 
I  promise  you  shan't  suffer." 

"Adelaide,  I  admire  your  pluck  and  good  feel- 
ing, but  you  really  can't  do  the  work  of  three.  You 
will  simply  kill  yourself  in  attempting  it." 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am,  that's  all  right.  Give  me  a 
trial  anyways." 


306  LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

The  trial  was  made,  and  Miss  Finlayson  did  not 
suffer — far  from  it.  She  had  never  been  so 
comfortable  in  her  life.  Adelaide,  always  im- 
proving, by  the  summer  had  developed  into  that 
greatest  of  household  treasures,  a  perfect  general 
servant.  It  was  not  only  that  she  got  through  the 
work  of  three  people,  she  did  it  so  much  better. 
The  brass  was  always  shining,  the  steps  were 
spotless,  the  hot  water  was  never  cold;  and  as  a 
tour  de  force,  or  crowning  proof  of  energy, 
Adelaide  allotted  a  day  in  each  week  to  give  one 
of  the  rooms  a  thorough  spring  cleaning. 

"Oh,  my  dear  girl,"  said  Miss  Finlayson  one 
evening  in  a  burst  of  genuine  enthusiasm  after 
her  good  dinner.  "What  a  wife  you  will  make! 
What  a  wife  you  will  make,  some  day,  when  the 
war  is  over !" 

Adelaide  flushed,  then  turned  pale,  and  her  lips 
trembled. 

"Are  you  engaged,  Adelaide?" 

"No,  ma'am.  But  I  have  a  friend,  and  I'm  very 
anxious  about  him;"  and  Adelaide  began  to  cry. 

It  was  so  long  since  she  had  heard  from  him, 
and  she  doubted  if  her  own  letters  ever  reached 
him.  At  night  she  used  to  have  dreadful  dreams 
that  he  was  killed,  or  taken  prisoner,  or  that  he 
had  quite  forgotten  her.  But  for  the  hard  work, 


JOAN    OF    ARC'  307 

she  would  have  gone  out  of  her  mind  from 
anxiety.  Then,  when  the  summer  was  nearly 
over,  the  milkman  brought  across  the  road  a  letter 
that  Dick  had  addressed  to  her  at  Belmont.  Her 
hand  sftook  so  much  that  the  milkman  had  to  carry 
the  milk  for  her  into  the  kitchen.  She  waited 
until  he  had  gone  before  she  opened  Dick's  letter. 

He  was  alive,  not  a  prisoner,  and  he  still  remem- 
bered her.  He  had  been  transferred  to  another 
battalion,  which  had  done  a  lot  of  moving  about 
as  well  as  a  lot  of  fighting.  But  now  things  were 
quieter,  and  he  hoped  to  get  a  turn  of  leave  before 
long.  He  reproached  her  for  not  writing,  and  he 
put  a  great  number  of  signs  of  multiplication  or 
addition  after  his  signature. 

That  afternoon  she  overcame  her  pride  and 
reluctance,  and,  going  across  the  road,  faced  her 
old  fellow-servants  at  Belmont.  It  was  an  ordeal, 
but  it  had  to  be  gone  through.  She  was  obliged 
to  ask  them  a  favor.  She  begged  that  if  her 
soldier  turned  up  there  looking  for  her,  he  might 
be  sent  at  once  to  the  correct  address.  She  could 
not  risk  the  chance  of  misunderstanding  or  delay 
when  Dick  came  round  the  corner  and  up  Hill 
Road. 

"A  soldier?"  said  Loo  wickedly.  "I  suppose  you 
mean  a  brother  officer?" 


308  LIFE  CAN   NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Vaughan,  "she's  a 
'General9  now,  and  we  mustn't  forget  it." 

And  they  chaffed  her  unmercifully. 

"To  be  sure.  When  you  went  into  the  army 
we  knew  you'd  do  well,  but  we  never  thought 
you'd  go  up  so  rapid  as  to  be  a  'General'  within 
the  year.  No  one  under  you,  and  no  one  above 
you — you  must  feel  grand.  People  used  to  look 
down  on  'Generals'  in  the  old  days,  counting  them 
as  mere  drudges;  but  times  are  changed,  aren't 
they,  Emily?" 

Adelaide  bore  it  all  without  flinching,  or 
attempting  to  answer  back.  She  felt  the  pin- 
pricks, but  they  were  nothing  to  what  she  had 
experienced  from  her  own  thoughts. 

It  was  in  September  when  he  came,  still  daylight 
after  a  warm  day;  and  by  providential  good 
fortune  Miss  Finlayson  was  dining  out  and  would 
not  be  back  till  late.  They  went  out  together,  and 
along  unfrequented  footpaths  between  the  villas 
and  the  fields.  At  such  moments  as  the  paths  were 
quite  empty  they  did  a  lot  of  hugging ;  and,  really, 
to  any  tender-hearted  person  it  would  have  been 
touching  to  hear  them  talk  to  each  other. 

Adelaide  told  him  all  about  it— her  high 
aspirations,  her  vow  to  do  something  great  or 
perish  in  the  attempt,  and  her  total  and  miserable 


JOAN    OF    ARC  309 

failure.    Before  she  had  finished  she  was  sobbing 
on  his  shoulder. 

"I  tried,  Dick— I  did  try.  An'  they,  they 
wouldn't  let  me.  An'  I've  worked,  Dick.  I've 
learnt  to  cook  real  well.  I  do  the  whole  house 
for  her,  and  she  praises  me.  I'm  not  the  help* 
less,  useless  girl  I  was — but  when  I  think  of  alj 
I  dreamed  and  hoped,  I  feel  I've  nothing  to  live 
for,  and  I  want  to  go  straight  to  the  river  and 
commit  suicide." 

"No,  don't  do  that,"  said  Dick.  "Live  for  my 
sake.  We'll  be  married  soon's  the  war's  over. 
And  we'll  light  out  for  the  colonies.  All  this 
cooking  and  housekeeping,  what  you  speak  of,  will 
come  in  very  handy  out  there." 

Then  they  went  to  the  cinema  theater — the  one 
where  they  had  first  met — and  sat  with  clasped 
hands,  except  when  the  lights  were  up.  They  saw 
runaway  motor-cars,  and  jolly  Wild  West  scenes 
with  the  sheriff  and  his  posse;  and  Adelaide  felt 
happy  again. 

THE  END 


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